


All this and heaven too

by Caivallon



Series: once upon a time... [4]
Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, M/M, Vampires
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-24
Updated: 2020-07-27
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:15:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21545146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caivallon/pseuds/Caivallon
Summary: He catches the scent even before he has opened the door.He knows it by heart; would be able to find it among thousands of people. Bright and sweet like a ray of sunlight breaking through the clouds.A scent he's dreaming about when he's at home, far away from this city with its pillars of concrete and steel.A scent he's missing when he's travelling, when he's surrounded by millions of others that just can't compare.A scent he's been trying to forget for months but has been unable to.
Relationships: Frederik Andersen/Mitch Marner, Mitch Marner/Auston Matthews
Series: once upon a time... [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1526549
Comments: 17
Kudos: 82





	1. All this and heaven too

**Author's Note:**

> I basically wrote this because I wanted to make the graphic. As always it turned out longer than I intended. But I love this idea and setting so much, and there can never be enough vampire stories, right?  
> Thank you [ **breakmystrings** ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/breakmystrings/pseuds/breakmystrings) for indulging my rambling about this, also sorry that it’s not JT. 
> 
> Thanks for dealing with my grammar mistakes again, [ **Alyssa** ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cardiac_arrest/pseuds/cardiac_arrest) ♥ 
> 
> I hope you like it. 
> 
> [](https://imgur.com/vdz9FRq)  
> 

**All this and heaven too**

The room is red— very red; red curtains, red upholstery, red light. And the air is hot, humid and rich with the scent of blood. 

_Human_ blood. 

It fills his lungs with every breath he takes and covers his tongue, sticks to his lips like heavy honey. But it’s sweeter than honey, thicker like syrup; more exciting and more expensive than any other drug. 

It’s exactly what Freddie imagined it would be like.

Parlors like this one are forbidden in Europe, and unlike some of his business partners, he never saw the appeal of them. Still can’t. Still thinks it’s weird, almost gross, degrading on so many levels for both the humans that work here or the vampires who come for their blood. 

Maybe it’s because he likes to have control. Maybe it’s because he considers himself above such mundane pleasures—too restrained to crave the desired and delicious blood that runs in tender veins under breakable human skin. 

His business partner nudges him, raises his chin in an unspoken question. ‘ _How do you like it?_ ‘ Then he smirks, obviously under the impression he invited Freddie to a very exclusive event. 

Freddie smiles curtly and lets him believe that before following him to a cozy alcove near the bar. 

On a small platform in the middle of the room, two girls are dancing with each other, both clad in nothing but lingerie, both pretty, both human. 

The donors are easy to recognize, sauntering from table to table to present themselves as a walking menu— dressed all identically, the males in dark pants and white dress shirts, the females in white plain dresses. They are of various ages, but all of them are gorgeous, with pale and immaculate skin. 

A couple wanders over to their table, and the woman smiles at him alluringly while she playfully lets the strap of her dress slip down the shoulder, showing off her neck. But it’s not her that catches his eyes; it’s her companion. 

A boy, looking so young that Freddie doubts he’s legally allowed to work in a place like this. A boy looking so out of place here, and yet, so _right_. 

With blue eyes and dark hair, he has a face that’s not what one would call pretty. Still, there is something special about his features that is instantly intriguing and makes it impossible for Frederik to look away. 

When the boy notices his gaze, he smiles, wide and heartily—too honest, too pure for this rotten place. 

“That’s Aurelia and Mitch,“ his partner leans towards him. “They are both highly demanded, both super expensive and usually booked out for weeks, but I managed to get them both for tonight, something special to celebrate our deal. I’ve only had her until now. Delicious, never had a type A that tasted like her.“

They’re both waiting in front of their table. Frederik smiles at them while his partner continues as if they weren’t right there, blabbering on as if they were objects. 

(Yet they are. Here, they are nothing but expensive objects that one could buy if he had enough money, like a Rolex or a Maserati.) 

“I’ve never had Mitch, but I can’t wait. Heard he’s even tastier. Type AB negative, very rare. Which explains the price. Worth it though, look at that pretty throat.“ 

Freddie does, because it’s hard to miss— even though Mitch isn’t flaunting it like the other donors in the room, not in that obvious and supposedly enticing way. But it _is_ a beautiful neck: long and elegant, with smooth and fresh-looking skin that reminds Freddie of green apples, making his teeth tingle and his stomach growl. 

For a moment, he feels ashamed; about the desire that he feels— the blatant greed and hunger. He can barely tear his eyes from Mitch and the longer he stares at him the harder it gets, the more he hates the degrading words of the other man and wishes he could just. Make. Him. Stop. 

“Got them for the whole night, both of them. You can do what you want to her, even mark her. Sadly they are both not available for fucking, but maybe for a little extra tip we can cum on them.”

It takes Freddie all of his control, all of his willpower to not punch his business partner in his face. The only reason he doesn’t is because of Mitch’s smile, the shadow of his lashes on the pale cheeks. Shy, almost. Awkward, and filled with embarrassment. 

Then he raises his eyes, meets Freddie’s gaze again— it’s not a plea for help. It’s nothing. There is _nothing_ left inside those blue eyes that have been so alive a few minutes before while he was laughing with Aurelia on their way over. 

Motionless and emotionless. As if someone blew out a candle, switched off every single light. Sedated him, drugged him. A doll. Beautiful and delicate but lifeless. 

Freddie knows Mitch is not for him. Not tonight. Not ever. He’s not _his_ , and he’s not his to save. 

Freddie _knows_. 

But it’s not enough to stop the other man as he reaches out to pull Mitch in and onto his lap. To shake his head and grasp his wrist before he gets to touch the boy. 

“Him. I want him.” 

To use all his power— his physical superiority, his family’s name, his company’s reputation. Because there is nothing his partner can do, not here. Not after finally closing the deal they’ve worked so hard for. 

He knows it’s futile. Dangerous even. 

Yet, when Mitch turns towards him and climbs onto the bench next to him, all effortless grace and long limbs, warm skin… 

He knows it’s worth it. 

And when he leans in and buries his face in the crook of Mitch’s neck, inhales the scent of him... When his lips scrape over the tender flesh and Mitch shudders in his arms, exhales in anticipation… When his teeth finally break the skin and the first drops of blood spill into his mouth and Mitch’s taste fills every void inside him with velvet and frosted apples and earthy chestnut—

He knows it’s worth it. 

That he will return to Copenhagen and still dream about this moment. 

That he’s addicted. 

That he will come back for more and more. Until every cell inside his body is Mitch’s. 

__

Thank you for reading.


	2. And I keep it in my chest with all my might

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Auston doesn’t know what he expected—he already noticed the dark windows from the street. But it’s still… a surprise to really find it like this. To find Mitch gone, the couch abandoned and the bed untouched. 
> 
> The bed Auston missed so much in his absence, bare of the person who should be in it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I wrote “All this and heaven too”, I didn’t think I would ever continue it, but I love the idea and I talked with [ **cardiac_arrest** ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cardiac_arrest/pseuds/cardiac_arrest) about how gorgeous Auston would be as a vampire. And then talked some more with [ **breakmystrings** ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/breakmystrings/pseuds/breakmystrings) and suddenly it became a story. 
> 
> I have no idea where I’m going with this and when I’ll have time to write more for it since I’m working on a longer fic and this is basically my selfish escape whenever the other story gives me trouble (which is often). ~~Okay I lied, at least about having no idea where I want to take this.~~ Maybe I’ll make a choose-your-story thingy out of this because I can totally see it ending in various ways. 
> 
> The title is from [ **Between two lungs** ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R2Ujua6a82c). Let’s see if I can stick to use “Florence and the Machine” songs for all the chapters. 
> 
> I want to thank both [ **cardiac_arrest** ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cardiac_arrest/pseuds/cardiac_arrest) and [ **breakmystrings** ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/breakmystrings/pseuds/breakmystrings) for letting me ramble about this story and especially [ **cardiac_arrest** ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cardiac_arrest/pseuds/cardiac_arrest) for reading this beta again and making it much better ♥
> 
> I hope you enjoy reading it.
> 
> [](https://imgur.com/hUufEur)  
> 

**And I keep it in my chest with all my might**

The apartment is empty when he opens the door: no sound and no scent apart from the warm and comforting fragrance of home. The air is stale as if no window has been opened for days, but it smells sweetly of pancakes, sharply of the potted plants on the windowsill, and salty from sweat and flesh. Familiar, but empty. 

Auston doesn’t know what he expected—he already noticed the dark windows from the street. But it’s still… a surprise to really find it like this. To find Mitch gone, the couch abandoned and the bed untouched. 

The bed Auston missed so much in his absence, bare of the person who should be in it. 

But Mitch isn’t there, and the only traces of him linger in the small bedroom and tiny bathroom—in the towels he used and discarded boxers that didn’t make it into the hamper because of Mitch’s messiness— in the sheets and cushions of their unmade queen-sized bed that feels empty when Mitch isn’t cuddling him. 

Auston is too tired, too hungry to do anything else but drop his bags in front of the closet and fall head first onto the bed: burying his face in the cotton and inhaling deeply, searching for more remains of Mitch. More of his scent, of the velvet and the freshly cut red apples, of the cinnamon and the autumn leaves. He inhales until he sees stars, until his heart aches with how much he misses Mitch—how much he _needs_ Mitch to bring his thoughts and blood to rest. 

He doesn’t know how long he lies there like this, but he knows he hasn’t slept one second when he finally hears footsteps in the hallway; lightweight and soft, almost soundless. Familiar, but at the same time not; missing their typical bounce and energy. But then, they stop in front of their door, and Auston has to clench his hand into the duvet, has to force himself to not get up and to the door so that he can tear it open and wrap himself around Mitch. 

It’s not what Mitch would want. And it’s not what Auston does. No matter how much he has missed Mitch—and no matter how starved he is for his blood. 

The minutes that it takes until Mitch comes to the bedroom are endless. Auston turns around and waits, head towards the half-open door and just breathes… searching the air for Mitch’s scent until he thinks he can’t take it anymore. These minutes are an eternity. 

“Auston?” 

Mitch doesn’t switch the light on, doesn’t need to. He knows every square inch of their tiny apartment by heart; the sharp edges of furniture, the squeaking floorboards, the piles of shoes and dirty laundry. He doesn’t switch the light on because the warm light from the street lamps is enough for him; is twice enough for Auston, whose eyesight is as sharp as a cat’s. 

It takes Mitch three more steps to be in front of the bed, to stand between Auston’s legs and fumble for his hands, his voice small, tired, disbelieving when he repeats Auston’s name as if it could be someone else lying in their bed. 

“I thought you’d be back tomorrow? I would’ve...” 

He doesn’t finish the sentence and just crumbles and falls into Auston’s arms; warm and soft and graceful like almost everything he does. His weight so welcome that Auston doesn’t protest, not when it’s everything he has been missing in the last couple of weeks. 

“I’m so sorry that I haven’t been at home. I mean—why didn’t you tell me you’d come home today? Or did I mess up the dates again?” 

He sounds confused and lost, but then he melts into Auston’s body, finds Auston’s mouth in the orange twilight. And then their teeth are clacking, their tongues meeting. And then they’re sharing the same air.

Auston knows why he came home earlier, why the apartment didn’t feel like home until this very moment—with Mitch’s scent in his nose, his taste on his tongue, his oxygen in his lungs.

It’s not enough to read his texts or hear him over the phone, not even enough to see him via FaceTime. And if Auston thought that he was hungry— _starving_ —before, then it’s a hundred times worse now that Mitch is pressed against him, pliant and placid, while Auston’s lips slide over the pulsing spot on Mitch’s throat.He can literally feel the blood beating under the vulnerable soft skin he’s sucking into his mouth, because it has been over three weeks and all the marks he left have faded into nothing. 

(It was one of the rare occasions that Mitch allowed him that. Usually, he only laughs and pushes him away after Auston drank his fill, sometimes pushes him away before Auston is even finished.) 

But suddenly there is something strange, something wrong, something he didn’t notice right away—too overwhelmed by relief and exhilaration of their closeness,by Mitch’s everything. 

A strange and foreign flavor clinging to his hair, sticking to his skin and coating his flesh. 

Maybe Mitch feels his hesitation, his tension because he hoists himself up abruptly, tries to withdraw himself from Auston—as if he remembers something.

Leather and titanium, expensive and cold, powerful and heavy. 

Not _Mitch_. So not _Mitch_ that Auston can’t help the disgust that is rising in his throat, stinging on the back of his tongue like the nervousness and franticness with which Mitch shakes himself loose and pulls himself away from him. 

“I was—I was out with some guys of the company… maybe—I have to take a shower.” 

It’s not alcohol like Auston thought at first. It’s anxiety. Guilt. Maybe even a _lie_. 

But Mitch doesn’t lie. Mitch can’t lie. Mitch doesn’t _need_ to lie because Auston trusts him, loves him with fierceness and desperation. Loves him with everything he has. Everything he _is_. Forgives him everything: every fault, every flaw. 

Loves him even more because of them. 

Auston wants to say this. Wants to say _anything_ , yet Mitch is gone before he can, and Auston’s arms are empty. What remains is the strange foreign taste on his lips, not awful but not the one he _needs_ , and he’s wide awake and every confused cell in his body longs for Mitch. It’s almost _unbearable_. 

Auston can see the white triangle of light through the half-open bathroom door. He can hear clothes shuffling and the shower curtain flapping. Then, the sound of the water running, splashing against the tiles, Mitch’s body moving under the weak stream of their chalk crusted showerhead. The absence of Mitch’s weight like a missing limb—it’s pulling him up; pulling him to the bathroom. 

It’s like he’s _hypnotized_.

Because he doesn’t undress, doesn’t hesitate one second. He just slides back the flimsy wet fabric and steps into the shower to Mitch. 

Mitch who looks surprised, almost shocked when Auston joins him in the small space. Caught and cornered for one tiny moment—as if he didn’t expect him. As if he doesn’t want him here. But then his expression turns into a smile, into an amused laugh when he discovers that Auston is still in his clothes. 

The sound is bright and a little wicked, resonating cool and wet from the tiles. 

“Oh my god, you’re crazy.” 

_‘Yes. For you. You make me crazy._ ’

He doesn’t say it, doesn’t need to because Mitch knows. Because Mitch leans back, goes all slack and allows Auston to gather his hands and hold them over his head, looks up at Auston with a hooded and almost blissed out gaze, licking his lips absently. 

The weirdness of the moments before is gone, erased by the obvious want in Mitch’s eyes, by the overwhelming scent of nothing but _Mitch_ in this confined space; by the way he allows Auston to look at him. 

As if he needs this as much as Auston. 

To be Auston’s again. To _finally_ be Auston’s again. 

Never before have they been separated for that long; and finding proof that it messed up Mitch just as much as him…It’s mind-blowing. To feel his hands twitch in Auston’s grip, hear him gasp loudly and desperately when Auston doesn’t do anything but stare at him, scanning him for all the tiny changes, feasting his eyes on the sight of Mitch’s naked body— dripping wet and pale. 

Oh, so very _pale_. So very _lovely_.

Even more than usual. Lashes black and lips red, standing out against the whitish skin. He looks exactly how he does when Auston just drank from him, when he just fucked him and came inside him. When he made Mitch _his_ in every possible way. Debauched and besotted. And Auston wants nothing more than look at him, raking his eyes over every single spot on his beautiful body; the bony ladder of his rib cage, the baby soft flesh on the inside of his arms and thighs, and the tempting taut flesh of his stomach. He wants to take his time and notice all the million tiny differences since he saw Mitch the last time; the freckles that have vanished, the new laugh lines around his eyes, the hair that is so long now it falls constantly into his eyes. 

But he _can’t_. 

And maybe Mitch can read his thoughts, can see it in his eyes because he angles his hips, presses them up against Auston, half-hard already— only from Auston being close, admiring him. Because he whines a little, fights the hold Auston has on him... wanting to touch, to reach for him. 

“Aus… please,” his voice is throaty, hoarse almost. “Please, do something. Anything.” 

It’s only a whisper, almost drowned by the water, by the loud tattoo of Auston’s blood in his ears, yet it's everything he wanted to hear, needed to hear. 

He takes a small step forward, closes the distance between them, not that there was much anyway because their shower is tiny, too small for two grown-up men like they are, especially when one is as big as Auston. 

Mitch’s reaction is instant, instinctive, and mind-blowing: eyes turning dark, lips parting, hips jerking up against Auston. He’s quivering, cheeks and chest flushed and radiating warmth that Auston can feel even through his drenched clothes. 

He’s gorgeous and Auston can’t hold back anymore. 

He dives in and buries his face in Mitch’s neck, inhales his scent for five too long and too short seconds—spring and summer and autumn and winter. Flowers and fruits and sunshine and snow and everything in between. Then he sinks his teeth into the breakable white flesh of Mitch’s throat, feels him go rigid against his body, motionless and tense from the pain of the bite before he literally melts, collapses in Auston’s arms like a puppet cut of its strings. 

Blissed out and trusting that Auston will catch him, gather him in his arms and carry his weight. It’s the only reason that Auston doesn’t allow himself to completely surrender himself to the taste of Mitch the moment the first drops of blood are on his tongue. Auston’s head is spinning with relief, with desire, with the overwhelming and razor-sharp feeling of belonging: hunger and delight, possessiveness and happiness… pride and fear and the purest, deepest love. Mitch tastes of all that, evokes all these thoughts inside him with every single one of his reactions—the sighs and gasps, the shivers that run down his spin and the hands that clasp onto Auston’s shoulders hard enough to leave angry welts. 

Mitch’s taste is _pure_. Better than any drug Auston has ever tried. Better than any human he has ever drunk from. 

Human blood is always better than the artificial crap that one can get at the stores. But Mitch’s blood? It’s beyond _good_. It’s the best thing he’s ever tasted. So good that he never wants to taste anyone else again. Never needs to taste anyone else again. And it’s not because he’s an AB—Auston has had AB’s before. It’s because he’s Mitch, because he’s more precious than anyone else: optimistic and enthusiastic, smart and funny. With the sweetest heart and kindest soul. 

Drinking his blood is like drinking honey and holy water. 

Addictive.

And Auston has gone through three weeks of abstinence. 

They don’t know how they make it out of the shower and to the bed—at least Auston doesn’t, but they did. They are both high on the renewed feeling of their bond. Both naked and Auston’s wet clothes on the floor next to the ones Mitch discarded earlier. Both still joined with their bodies: sticky and messy, wet from the shower and sweat.

But no one complains. Auston needed this, and Mitch probably knows it. At least he didn’t protest when Auston pressed him into the mattress, almost crushed him with his body. When Auston fucked him with deep and demanding thrusts. And he doesn’t protest when Auston refuses to pull out and stays buried inside him even after they both came; nose in Mitch’s hair, lips sucking on the already dark purple bruise below Mitch’s jaw. 

Maybe Mitch needed it, too. 

Because he whimpers and digs his heels into Auston’s thighs so that he can’t pull out. Shakes his head and bares his throat again. An invitation if Auston ever saw one. 

But Mitch’s smile is tired, too tired and he’s too pale, too weak; his hands are trembling when he slides them around Auston’s shoulders and into his hair, and his heartbeat is both too fast and yet still too weak for Auston to take that offer, no matter how tempting it is— how much he wants to drink more. 

Having Mitch clinging to him, smelling fresh from the shower and the scent of their lovemaking; his blood warm and honey-sweet inside Auston’s veins. It has to be enough. 

Enough to forget about that foreign scent. 

It _is_ enough to forget about that foreign scent when Mitch repeatedly runs his nose over Auston’s collarbone and rains little flutter-kisses over his chest. 

“I missed you so _so_ much. The apartment… it felt so empty without you, so wrong… “ His voice is small, slurred and exhausted. On the brink of passing out. “I felt so empty. So lonely… and _wrong_.“ 

As if Auston didn’t feel the same. Didn’t rush home one day earlier. Didn’t hate to leave in the first place. 

Still, hearing it from Mitch who is always so happy, so carefree and careless… as if nothing can bother him. It’s everything he has ever wanted and he is still not used to hearing it— doesn’t think he’ll ever be used to it. 

There is no universe in which Auston could ever deny one of Mitch’s requests, but he can feel himself getting soft and slipping out of him. Can’t hold up his body much longer and so he flips them over, cradling Mitch’s head and comforting him when he moans at the sudden loss of their connection. 

“Shhh.” _It’s okay_.

“Don’t leave.”

Auston didn’t plan to. He didn’t even think about it. Thought about this moment on the whole flight from Europe. And even if he had wanted to clean them up… the second Mitch asked him not to would have changed his mind. 

_‘I won’t ever leave you.’_

Instead, he arranges their limbs so that Mitch’s leg is over his thigh and Mitch’s body is in his arms and on top of Auston’s: Mitch’s face snug against his neck, breath brushing over the heated skin of Auston’s throat. Like this, he can reach around him and sink two of his fingers into Mitch’s loose and wet hole, still lovely slick with come and lube. 

Mitch exhales softly and blissfully in relief, mouths his thanks into Auston’s embrace. 

He would pass out soon, spent and drained. And Auston would stay awake and hold him, watching him and protecting him like he has sworn himself the first time he laid eyes on Mitch. 

It’s calming. For them both. 

The whole world reduced to nothing but _them_ , their togetherness. While everything and everyone fades and evaporates with every breath they take and every beat of their heart. 

It’s calming even though Auston knows the only thing he can’t protect Mitch from is himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ **tumblr** ](https://miss-malheur.tumblr.com/)


	3. Even closer to you (you seem so very far)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mitch immediately climbs into his lap after Freddie has sat down, sighs almost soundlessly and contently. 
> 
> “I wish I wasn’t already booked. _I’ve missed you_." 
> 
> Freddie smiles, instinctively brings his arm around Mitch’s waist. Having Mitch’s affection like this is precious. Not because others would probably pay a small fortune to have it. Only because he’s Mitch; who feels more real than anything else in this place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Third chapter, wow! And now I know where I’ll be going with this, at least to about 80%, wow. It’s still my escape from my longer wip but I already love it so much that I’m really dedicated to it and eager to write more. I’m still thinking about making it a choose-your-story fic, so I’d love to know if someone would be interested in that? 
> 
> Title is from Florence and the Machine’s song [ **"Wish That You Were Here"**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dsWDUvuF0Xc). So far I’m sticking to that. But their songs are so amazing and emotional, it’s easy to find inspiration in them. 
> 
> [ **cardiac arrest** ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cardiac_arrest/pseuds/cardiac_arrest) was my beta-reader again, and again she helped me not only with grammer and punctuation (and added or deleted approximately 10000 commas because English punctuation is the worst when you’re German) but also with the general storyline. Thank you, my dear! I’ll pay you back with iced cappuccino or hot chocolate or whatever you want ♥
> 
> I hope you enjoy reading it. 
> 
> [](https://imgur.com/ZPCF8OJ)  
> 

**Even closer to you (you seem so very far)**

The long hallway already looks familiar. Familiar in a way he never thought it would look to him when he walked past the deep red draperies and over the polished dark hardwood floor the first time. It still feels like diving into a pool filled with blood instead of water: the air warm and thick, almost making it hard to breathe, all sounds subdued and distant. 

It still feels wrong. 

It still makes him feel disgusted— _dirty_. 

Ever since he set foot into the club for the first time, it’s as if he really bathed in blood, and the thick liquid still coats his skin. No matter how many showers he takes, he can't wash it away. 

Freddie never wanted to be here in the first place. But he came back. _Again and again_. And he knows he will come back after this night. _Again and again_.

Whenever he's in Toronto. 

Because there is someone here who’s worth it, someone who makes him forget about his surroundings. Someone who tastes better than anyone else. Someone who makes him smile, and soothes the restlessness of his soul. 

A valet dressed all in black folds back the velvet curtain hiding the doorway to the main room, greeting him and bowing almost submissively. Freddie almost wants to snort. He has always hated being treated differently just because of his wealth, because of his status. Instead, he just nods as he passes him by and takes in the huge space. 

It's a weekday, but the club is busy nevertheless; almost every single one of the alcoves is occupied, even the seats at the bar are taken except for two or three with customers who are waiting or haven't picked their donor for the night. It’s darker than usual, the lights more dimmed with no performance on the little stage—even the music is slower, quieter, not the pulsing agitated songs that always reminded him of a beating heart. 

He likes the atmosphere maybe a little bit better, but then again, it's not what he's here for. 

Black-clad waiters mill around the place, carrying trays with drinks, almost blending in with the dark wooden panels and burgundy curtains. Their uniforms carefully picked to not confuse or distract anyone from the white-clad donors, who stand out and immediately attract attention like light in a nighttime forest. 

"It's a pleasure to have you back, Mr. Andersen." The hostess is beautiful, just like every person working here, and he returns her polite smile as he hands over his coat. That she remembers his face is unsettling even though it's what he would expect from an exclusive place like this.

"You're here for Mitch, I assume?" 

That she remembers who he's here for… that makes his stomach twist unpleasantly. Makes him feel weak. _Addicted_. 

But he is—both weak and addicted. Because he can feel his hands clench at the mention of the name, can see the image in front of his eyes when he closes them for a second. Can taste spring rain and autumn wind on his tongue. A drop of longing and emptiness in the hollow of his stomach, a hunger that goes beyond the blood that flows in Mitch's veins. 

"Yeah," he nods; it costs all his willpower to not let his eyes sweep through the room while she stares at her notepad in mild confusion. 

"I… I'm afraid there must be something wrong with my notes because I—" 

"I don't have a booking. It was… a spontaneous idea." 

For half a second she looks as if she's about to laugh, but then she has herself under control, smiles politely and apologetically. 

"Oh, I see. But unfortunately, he is already booked for tonight, for the whole night. Mitch is really highly demanded—which you probably know already." She taps a black lacquered finger against her lips. "But let me see whom I can offer you tonight." 

Freddie has known that Mitch is usually booked weeks in advance. Not only because he was told, but also because his assistant has told him about all the troubles she went through to get him the previous bookings. Not only because he has noticed the openly envious gazes that were on him whenever Mitch came to his table, whenever he sunk his teeth into the soft pale flesh of his wrist or throat. 

He has known it because he tasted his blood because he has seen his smile, has heard his laughter. Has known it even before that—the second he has set his eyes on him. 

Mitch's heart is kinder and purer, his soul more bright and precious than anyone else's. 

And everybody coming to a place like this is dark, depraved and desperate for the absolution they could find in his arms. 

Including him. 

And that's why no one else would suffice. 

"No, no. I don't want anyone else." Freddie's voice is raw; he feels thirsty. Cranky. Out of place. When she looks up at him, her expression is a blank professional mask, hiding that she probably thinks he's crazy for not booking Mitch in advance. Maybe she's even pitying him, bracing herself to refuse another offer of bribery that she is used to from previous clients. 

"He's already booked three times tonight, and he's—he's working tomorrow too. So we can’t make an exception, not even for a respected and appreciated guest like you, Mr. Andersen. I apologize, but we have our policies here. It's to protect our donors' health." 

She is really good, Freddie has to give her that. She manages to sound as if she's really sorry instead of bored and annoyed for citing something she must have said a thousand times. 

"It's fine. I'm not here for that. Well, not solemnly. I just want to talk to him for a couple of minutes. Is that possible?" 

There is a little wrinkle between her perfectly plucked eyebrows, but then she nods and asks him to follow her to the bar to take a seat. 

"Please have a drink on the house. I'll work something out for you." 

"Thank you…?"

"Mikhaela." 

"Thank you, Mikhaela." 

Maybe Freddie imagines the small smile, the softness around her eyes as she turns around… maybe it's not pity, maybe it's not sympathy. Maybe it is. But he doesn't really care; he wouldn’t have gotten to the point he’s at right now if he cared about what people thought of him. He doesn't care what his clients and partners and family would think of him if they knew that he's sitting at the counter of a blood parlor in Toronto, in the middle of the night, waiting for hours to just speak to a young man who's occupying almost all his dreams and thoughts for months now. 

He orders a scotch and waits. He doesn't check his phone just to appear busy and important. He doesn't let his eyes wander around the room like the other patrons sitting at the counter just like him, their gazes hungrily following the white-clad donors until they made their pick or until it's their turn. Looking for Mitch, staring at him… watching someone else suck on his pale throat until he's finally done and on break is pointless. It will not make time move faster or his heart calm down. 

Patience is a virtue and Freddie has practiced it for his whole life. Especially when he knows something is worth the wait. And Mitch is. Not his blood, or his beautiful body. _Mitch_.

The tentative touch to his shoulder and the scent of sweet chestnuts, spiced with November frost and summer sunrises. The low chuckle that is both surprised and delighted, that feels so much more real than anything in this fake and polished establishment. 

"I thought my eyes deceived me. What are you doing here, Mr. Andersen?"

Without asking, Mitch slides into the small space between Freddie and the man next to him—apparently not noticing the way that guy turns around and looks at him; nostrils flared and eyes wide with interest. Then Freddie stops paying attention to his seat neighbor because he's not important anymore—never was. 

Mitch is. 

He is paler than usual, almost as white as the dress shirt he's wearing. It makes his lashes look darker and the bite wounds on his throat and wrists stand out almost grotesquely. Makes Freddie's hand twitch with the urge to touch them, to feel if they are not too deep and painful. 

As if Mitch has read his thoughts, he shrugs and quickly covers the ones on his throat, laughs awkwardly. 

"Why didn't you tell me that you're in town?" He sounds almost offended and pouts a little bit; his lips look dry, like parchment, and his tongue is probably furry from dehydration. Freddie knows that Mitch tends to forget to drink enough water when he's with clients. Nevertheless, he's beautiful, easily the most alluring person in the room. Feeling Mitch's blue eyes slide quickly over his body and face as if to assure himself that Freddie is well, settles something settle in Freddie's stomach; like everything suddenly makes more sense. 

"It was an emergency meeting, I didn't know until two days ago." 

Mitch frowns a bit, looks almost worried, but then he smiles; it's so wide and genuinely happy that Freddie feels a shiver of warmth running down his spine. Next to him the man leans in, nose almost close enough to brush over Mitch's neck and—Freddie wants to push him away, wants to stand up and take Mitch somewhere away and safe from these creatures that are only here for his delicious blood. 

But he doesn't; doesn't because Mitch grabs his arm, loops his hand around it and starts to pull him from the stool. 

"Well, I'm happy you're here, whatever the reasons are. Come with me. I have a few minutes."

Freddie follows him, lets himself be led to an empty alcove in the back of the room. Mitch's fingers are cool, even through the fabric of the light blue Brioni shirt Freddie's wearing, and they are trembling slightly. From the loss of blood. From the two clients, Mitch has already served this night. From two greedy men who couldn't stop, who took more than they were allowed. 

Freddie can almost sympathize with them, can clearly remember how Mitch tastes, how hard it is to quit drinking and sucking on his soft soft flesh. To not throw every sense of caution and decorum in the wind and just continue until they drown in blood lust. 

But he never crossed any boundaries, never ignored one of Mitch’s tale-telling signs that it’s too much. Not his little shivers nor his sweet whimpers. 

Mitch immediately climbs into his lap after Freddie has sat down, sighs almost soundlessly and contently. 

“I wish I wasn’t already booked. _I’ve missed you_." 

Freddie smiles, instinctively brings his arm around Mitch’s waist. Having Mitch’s affection like this is precious. Not because others would probably pay a small fortune to have it. Only because he’s Mitch; who feels more real than anything else in this place. 

Mitch’s words could be empty compliments, meant to deceive him or entice more tips from him. But somehow they feel real, his touches and smiles feel real. 

In his life, Freddie has met many people, experienced all kinds of politeness and friendliness that he has learned to differentiate that from the thinly veiled slyness and fake servitude of business partners and bootlickers. Mitch is not like them. And Mitch is not like that with his other clients. 

He doesn’t repeat Mitch’s words; there is no point, and it’s not Freddie’s style. 

Instead, he gestures for a waiter to bring them water and another scotch while he listens to Mitch telling him about his rehearsals and his newest role. 

"I brought you something." He says when Mitch finally stops to take huge gulps of water as if he just realized how thirsty he is. 

"Oh, you didn’t have to, you know that.” But his eyes give away the excitement he feels, just like his hectic bouncy movement when he slides from Freddie's lap. And… Freddie should mind it because he likes Mitch's weight, his warmth, his closeness. Yet he can't, rather has Mitch beside him instead of sitting on his lap like a trained exotic bird. 

It’s not unusual for clients to bring their favorite donors gifts; clothes, jewelry, chocolates… expensive things to buy the donor's affection. Freddie has never understood the reason behind that as none of the donors can wear these things for work or eat any of the delicacies until later since it would affect the taste of the blood. But now he does. 

Now Mitch is in his thoughts and dreams no matter how far Freddie is away from Toronto. He knows it's one-sided, but it doesn't stop him whenever he sees something beautiful, something they have talked about. 

Mitch’s eyes are bright, and his smile is sweet when Freddie presses the small package into his hands. 

"What is it?"

"Open it."

Freddie watches as Mitch carefully strokes over the velvet ribbon before he unwraps the dark blue paper, obviously not wanting to tear it. But when he lifts the lid he smiles falters and he looks up at Freddie with confusion in his eyes. Then he chuckles quietly, sounds almost relieved. 

"A stone?" 

"From Hamlet's castle,” Freddie explains. They have talked about Shakespeare and Mitch’s upcoming play last time. "It's silly… but I thought you'd maybe find it inspiring."

Mitch swallows visibly. "I do… I really appreciate it." 

There is a brush of color now on his cheeks, and his lashes flutter nervously—as if he wants to meet Freddie's eyes but is too embarrassed as if he's afraid to show his feelings. As if he's fighting tears. 

"Hey… Mitch," Freddie hesitantly brings his hand around Mitch's face, brushes his thumb over the smooth skin, now warm to the touch. "Look at me, please."

"It's just… it's really a great gift. Thank you." 

The stone is not remarkable at all, small enough for Mitch to almost wrap his fingers around it, and not particularly beautiful. Freddie is very sure that Mitch got a lot more expensive gifts from clients before, has even seen him unwrapping golden bracelets and silk ties and lingerie… But Mitch stares at it as if it’s a sparkling diamond. 

"It's just a stone, Mitch."

"No… it's not," He shakes his head, his voice sounding frail, thick with emotions. "You didn't just go into a store and chose the most expensive and naughty thing… You thought about _me_ … and it's from you, _you_ picked it." 

Freddie doesn't know what to say, what to think. Mitch is right. With everything. But he still hasn't expected this reaction—bringing Mitch close to tears was not his intention at all. Not at all. 

Mitch has always seemed precious to him; innocent in a way no one in this place was. With his open and happy laughter, and his genuine reactions. It had never felt fake to him, at least not when Mitch came to his table and talked with him, when he sat on his lap and allowed Freddie to put his arm around him, when he met his eyes and hold his gaze—unlike what he did with some other clients who sometimes pulled him in and groped him unashamedly, who made him flinch and model their gifts, who whispered their fantasies into his ear before they bit him. 

But right now it feels to him as if he unlocked a hidden door inside Mitch—a door Freddie didn't even know that it existed. A door that revealed him a side of Mitch that he only shows to people whom he trusts. A door Freddie isn't even sure that Mitch knew about. Or that he opened it for him. 

But he did. And Freddie is sure he never wants it to fall shut again. He's not sure why or how he deserved to open it. But he would guard the key fiercely, would never misuse it and only throw it away if Mitch asked him to. 

But he hopes he never will. 

Freddie wants to keep it, always wants to see Mitch look up at him like this, with wide eyes and the most gentle smile; vulnerable and full of trust. He wants Mitch to know that he can be as free as he wants him, can be himself. Wants Mitch to reach for his chest and pull out his pocket square to blow his nose like he's doing now.

"Oh my god! Did I really—I'm so sorry!" The little squeal at his own rude gesture is cute and so human, so Mitch, that Freddie couldn't stay affronted if he ever had been. He laughs. 

"I'm glad you like it." 

"I _love_ it. The gift I mean, not the—" He blushes furiously. "But, you know… you don’t have to give me anything, Mr. Andersen. I already like you enough."

"I know.” Freddie really does. Mitch may be an actor but his eyes can’t lie. His happiness and gratitude are real. As real as the stone in Mitch’s hand, as Mitch’s warmth pressed against his side and the emotions that curl pleasantly in Freddie’s stomach when Mitch leans in and presses a short, plain kiss to his cheek. 

He never wants him to leave, never wants to stop touching him. 

"I— I think I have to go soon, but if you want…?“ Mitch lifts his hand, the one not holding the stone, and presents his wrist; unmarked and slender and tempting. "I can’t offer you much, only a few droplets. But I guess that's not… not what you came for, right?"

"No. No, Mitch, that's not what I came for." Freddie shakes his head. 

"But it's the only way I can thank you. And I really want that." 

"Let me take you out for lunch tomorrow." He has no idea where the words came from. "I have meetings all day, so at least like this I'll have something to look forward to in between."

Mitch blinks, immediately shakes his head before he stops himself. He seems so shocked about his own reaction that he visibly pales and freezes. Then he blinks again and every light disappears from his eyes—so sudden and so brutally that Freddie feels like someone turned it off, turned the temperature in the room so low that shudders run down his spine. It feels like he hit Mitch. 

He's aware that he crossed a line; not because it's uncommon or forbidden for donors to see clients in their free time. A lot of his business partners do it, a lot of them pay their favorite donors for additional time and blood. But Freddie isn't like them, doesn't want to be like them. He’s horrified by his own sudden demand. 

So he hurries to apologize, to take his words back. Because he doesn't want to be like one of those clients. But Mitch just places his hand over his mouth, stops him in the middle of his stuttered explanation. Smiles with an expression that is too much to interpret. Fondness? Amusement? Sadness? Forgiveness? 

"I'd love to, Mr. Andersen, I'd really love to, but I can't. And I've never been more sorry to say no to an offer like that." 

Freddie closes his eyes. Only for a second, because even when Mitch rejects him, he's too beautiful to not look at him. Freddie nods. Only for a second, because even when he expected this answer Mitch is too precious to not be honest. Freddie smiles. Because even when Mitch is about to break his heart he is everything. 

"I have a boyfriend, Mr. Andersen. I—normally I decline invitations like this because even paid I don't want to spend more time than necessary with a client. But you're… different." Mitch lifts the hand with the stone. "You're so different, and I—I like you a lot. But I have a boyfriend and I, I love him so much." 

"And he doesn't know about this." Freddie knows. There is no other way. It's not possible that anyone would allow his boyfriend to work here otherwise. But he's almost surprised that he manages to sound so casual, so cool, as if Mitch hasn't pulled the rug out from under his feet. Apparently, his rumored ice face is so good that it works on himself. 

"No, he doesn't. It would drive him crazy." 

"He's a vampire." 

"Yes… he is. We've been together since I went to high school. He's sweet and kind and wonderful and I don't want to hurt him." 

"But why are you lying to him? Why do you work here?" 

Mitch shakes his head, a helpless gesture to stop Freddie from pushing him for more. 

"I can't… It's complicated. But I can't tell him, it would—break him."

"You're hurting him right now. Every second you're hiding something from him. Every second you lie to him." 

He wants to hate that boyfriend. But he can't. Can't hate someone Mitch obviously loves so much that Freddie can see it in his eyes: the pure misery and adoration, the bliss and pain… all the emotions that are not for him, but that he unlocked with his present. 

This time, when he cups Mitch's face inside his palm there is wetness—tears. Salty and warm. He wants to dry them. To make them unshed. He wants to turn back time to the moments he didn't know that Mitch’s boyfriend exists. That Mitch exists. That someone exists in this world that would make him feel helpless and weak and happy like this. 

"Mitch… I don't want to judge—actually I'm not judging. Not you nor your boyfriend. And I definitely didn't want to make you sad. But… please have lunch with me tomorrow. You can talk to me and maybe, maybe we'll figure it out." 

Freddie can see that the bartender is watching them with narrowed eyes; he's human, and it's too dark for him to see that Mitch is crying, but Mitch’s agitation is obvious even for him. Freddie shakes his head slowly, but he knows that the man will soon alert one of the security guards. 

Mitch has probably noticed his reaction because he follows his gaze and also shakes his head, gives the man a feeble smile, indicating that he's okay. Then he sits straighter, quickly wipes his fingertips over his eyes and repeats the smile for Freddie; it's a little more confident, a little less weak. 

"I want to help you, Mitch, so… think about it, please. This is my card, I'll tell my assistant that she's allowed to give you my personal cell number." Freddie places the little white card into the box with the stone. "You don't have to, obviously. I would be disappointed, but I'll never be mad, okay?"

With a long exhale Mitch nods. He seems more pulled together, less shaky. His laugh sounds relieved and almost real. "I know. I'll—think about it." 

"Thank you." 

"Don't thank me for… like crying all over you and ruining your pretty pocket square—" Mitch lifts the blue fabric that is wrinkled and wet. "Which is made of pure silk so I probably won’t try to wash it. But I'll buy you a new one, I promise. I’m _so_ sorry." 

"You don't have to. I didn't like it anyway." Freddie laughs; if he tells Mitch a little lie, than it's only for his own good. And it's not like he really cares about it. "You're welcome to cry all over me anytime." 

"I really have to go… I'd rather stay here and serve you instead of that… Sorry, that was unprofessional." He winces, turns around quickly to check if no one has heard him. "Do I look okay?" 

This time Freddie doesn't have to lie. Maybe there is still a wet shimmer in Mitch's eyes, maybe his hair is a bit in disarray, his lips bitten and chapped. Maybe his scent is slightly off; the apple and winter-woods scent muted and more salty, more spiked with nervousness. But he’s still easily the most outstanding boy in the room, the most beautiful one. 

"Yeah. Yeah, I think it'll make do." 

This time Mitch laughs for real; maybe because he reads Freddie's true thoughts on his face, maybe because he's just thankful for the little joke that brightens the mood. Maybe because he's thinking of his boyfriend who will be waiting for him later. 

This time Freddie doesn't care because Mitch clutches his gifts against his chest as if they are most precious. Because Mitch leans in and whispers into his ear before he places a short peck to Freddie's cheek. 

Because he gives him a last warm smile before turns around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will probably Mitch's POV and I'm already terrified.  
> [ **tumblr** ](https://miss-malheur.tumblr.com/). Don't be scared, I don't bite. ^.^


	4. Sometimes I wish for falling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mitch's heart gives a little jump—he almost trips over his own feet before he stumbles forward; blood beating loud in his ears, cheeks feeling hot. He wishes he could say that this has anything to do with the warmth in the restaurant, but he’s too self-aware and too honest to lie to himself. 
> 
> Because the only reason he’s nervous, excited, _delighted_ is the man waiting for him. And at this moment it’s even enough to extinguish the guilt that he is feeling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was hard. Not only because a lot more real life happened that I could deal with, but also because Mitch’s POV is. Hard. But I hope you still like it. 
> 
> Beta reading - as always nowadays - was done by [ **cardiac arrest** ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cardiac_arrest/pseuds/cardiac_arrest) and she really deserves all the cupcakes in the world for helping me so much and being so patient ♥ 
> 
> Title again taken from Florence and the Machine.
> 
> [](https://imgur.com/fwmKg4k)  
> 

**Sometimes I wish for falling**

Mitch is late. Again. He always is, so he's hurrying through the middle of what will probably become a real snowstorm soon in only his light and definitely not weather appropriate jacket. He dodges other people on the slippery sidewalk while simultaneously typing a message and cursing himself for not wearing a scarf or beanie. 

So he doesn't really know how it happens or who's fault it is, but suddenly he crashes into someone, and then his phone is flying through the air and hitting the pavement of the street: glass and plastic is splitting and sparkling—it would have been almost beautiful if it weren't for the wet concrete and the muddy snow and the fact that it was his fucking _phone_. But before he can even react and make a jump for it, he sees a flash of orange and turquoise in the corner of his eye and then a cab is driving right over the remains of his phone. 

And all he can do is watch, and laugh. Because _fuck_ his life. 

He doesn't even bother picking up the pieces. It's pointless. 

For a few seconds he just stares at the scenery and tries to not find it an accurate recapture of his life lately. Shattered, broken—a hopeless mess. 

Then he exhales loudly and pulls himself together and continues walking. 

-

The restaurant is still busy even though it's long past lunchtime, but most of the guests have already been served and are already eating or in the process of leaving. 

Nevertheless, it's easy to spot the tall figure in the back, seemingly unbothered by the ruckus all around him, casually scrolling over something on his phone. 

Mitch's heart gives a little jump—he almost trips over his own feet before he stumbles forward; blood beating loud in his ears, cheeks feeling hot. He wishes he could say that this has anything to do with the warmth in the restaurant, but he’s too self-aware and too honest to lie to himself. 

Because the only reason he’s nervous, excited, _delighted_ is the man waiting for him. And at this moment it’s even enough to extinguish the guilt that he is feeling. 

Freddie hasn’t noticed him yet, still frowning at his phone; brows wrinkled and hair in slight disarray. It makes him look younger, almost cute, and Mitch finds that he likes it. That he wants to touch the little crease between Freddie’s brows and winds his fingers through the ginger mop. 

Then Freddie looks up and meets his eyes. Starts to smile. 

Maybe he has heard or smelled Mitch—maybe he just felt his gaze. But suddenly Mitch is aware that he’s standing in the middle of a restaurant like an idiot and crosses the remaining distance to the table. 

"Sorry… I didn't—rehearsals took longer than expected." He bites his lips, inwardly curses the deepening blush on his cheeks, the nervousness. It's not like he has planned on being late; it's not even his fault. Still, he doesn't like it, doesn't like making Freddie wait. 

It feels like their time is always limited. _Precious_. 

“It's okay, I don't mind waiting.” Freddie puts his phone away. “I'd rather be here waiting for you than having lunch with my clients.”

“But don't you have more meetings?” 

“Not until later, so I'm good.”

“Great, that's really great. I'm happy for you.” Mitch slides into the booth opposite to Freddie and reaches for the menu. He knows that Freddie loathes his business partners, something that was obvious to him even when they had met the first time. Maybe it was one of the first reasons he felt so drawn to him. 

That he's _different_. 

Something that has become more and more clear with every time they have seen each other. And that has made him not only look forward to Freddie's visits but also to be comfortable around him and enjoy it. 

Miss him. 

“How are you? Besides hungry, I mean?“

“Starving actually, and so done for this week. Actually, for this month. But how are you? When did you get here? How long are you staying?” Mitch stops his flood of questions to rattle down the order for the waitress while Freddie just looks at him with an amused smile

He doesn't order anything for himself, but Mitch doesn't ask anymore, has stopped feeling weird about it, just like he stopped apologizing for suggesting lunch places that he likes after Freddie told him he doesn't mind. Usually, it's restaurants like this, small diners or coffee shops in the area, serving unpretentious burgers, pasta or huge bowls of fried rice. It's nothing that Freddie would have chosen, Mitch is sure: too loud, too bright, too busy. Hip and young. 

Places where Freddie always looks slightly out of place with his immaculate and expensive suits, with his stoic and quiet demeanor, with his gentleman-like and old-fashioned manners. 

Mitch knows that Freddie wants him to be happy and be somewhere he's comfortable; places that have food he actually likes instead of a stiff gourmet temple where any other client would have probably taken him. It’s another reason why Freddie is so different, even though he's probably one of the most loaded persons he has ever met, and definitely the oldest vampire. 

He leans forward, places his hands on the table, mirroring Freddie's posture and barely refraining from reaching out to him and brushing his fingertips over the pale knuckles and following the bluish veins under the cool skin. He _can't_. No matter how much he wants. 

Instead, he tells Freddie about the play; about the rehearsals that have become more and more stressful and intense now that the premiere is so close. About the costume fittings that he always loves, simply because they make everything more real and add a touch of magic. About the long nighttime sessions on the stage, until they were sure every little movement was perfect, every line was delivered with the right amount of drama and lightness. 

"I want to come. To the premiere, I mean. I want to see you on stage." 

Mitch stops mid-sentence, blinks. Then he laughs and rubs his neck. Sometimes he can't read Freddie, can't tell if he's being serious or just teasing him. There is the logical part of his mind that knows Freddie wouldn't mock him or his love for acting (not after all the presents he has brought him). And there is the not so logical part of his brain that is delighted that someone like Freddie would care enough about him to waste that much time on someone as fleeting and meaningless as Mitch. 

And the other logical part of his brain that reminds him that he is nothing, can't be anything—not compared to an ageless and immortal being like Freddie is. Who has seen kingdoms rise and fall, who has talked to geniuses like Michelangelo and van Gogh. Who has courted and bedded women and men that were so much more important and thrilling than him. 

He swallows; his heart beating suddenly so loud inside his chest that he's sure that Freddie can hear it. He _knows_ that Freddie can hear it because he stops smiling and withdraws, leans back and sits suddenly so straight that Mitch can feel the additional distance between them like a waft of cold. 

"Only if it's okay for you, of course." 

The change in Freddie's face is still so palpable; his expression now so unreadable to Mitch that he can't stop himself from dropping his fork and reaching out for him, from silently begging him with his fluttering lashes to come back, to open up to him again. 

(It's unfair what he's doing, he knows. He has heard it often enough how irresistible he can be when he wants something. It’s unfair because he’s treating Freddie like one of his clients.) 

He wants to tell him that it’s okay, that he's honoured. That he would love to have Freddie in the audience when he’s stepping onto the stage. Except that he can't. 

He can't. And he hates it. So he just slides his foot over until he finds Freddie's under the table, nudges it playfully and sadly at the same time. Hopes that his face can express what his words can't say. 

"Aus—my boyfriend… he'll be there." 

Freddie nods; he doesn't look surprised. Not at all. 

"Of course." 

Finally, there is a small and soft smile. Finally, Freddie turns his hand around so that Mitch can place their palms together. Finally, Freddie allows him to curls their feet together and Mitch—

He didn't realize until this moment that he held his breath. That his heartbeat slowed down and his body went cold; he shivers, has to press his hand against his lips to keep in the sigh of relief. 

"Mitch…?" Freddie's voice is so soft, so patient and understanding. 

"Can we—" A shrug; helpless like he's not used to feeling. Not with Freddie. 

"Can we go, please?" 

Maybe he's being dramatic, maybe he's overreacting, because leaving the restaurant won't help. It would make it worse actually—he knows it. But he can't imagine continuing their earlier conversation, can't think of eating another bite of his duck poutine, can't stand sitting here anymore, so far away, and still too close. 

Without a word, without a question, without a doubt, Freddie waves the waitress over to their table and settles the bill; quickly and quietly like everything he does. Then he gets up and helps Mitch into his shaggy thin coat and leads him out of the restaurant. 

The cold winter air hits his face and bites into his skin, but it's almost beautiful in its mercilessness: almost clean and cleansing, so he leans his head back and inhales with huge, greedy gulps, not minding the heavy and wet snowflakes that land in his hair and melt on his cheeks. 

Freddie is waiting silently next to him; not touching (he almost never does, not without asking first). A tall and towering presence, shielding him from wind and the eyes of passing strangers. 

Mitch suddenly feels so overwhelmed, so thankful, so secure—and so lost and exhausted at the same time. He wants to curl up against Freddie’s chest, hide in his arms and breathe in his strangely cool-warm scent of leather and metal. 

(A scent that has become so familiar to him that he would recognize it among hundreds.)

He doesn’t. But it’s a close thing. And the only reason he refrains from it is that they are in public, that anyone could spot them. That the first time he touches Freddy so tenderly and intimately shouldn’t be like this: hurried, clumsy, out of confusion and guilt. 

"Mitch… is everything alright? Is it—is it something with your mother?" 

He almost wants to laugh, because his mother has probably never been farther from his mind than in this moment. Because Freddie is so unaware of his spinning and twisted thoughts. He doesn't, but he forces a smile onto his face, a chuckle out of his throat. Shakes his head. 

"No, she's… okay. I mean, as okay as she can be under the circumstances." It's easier to meet Freddie's eyes again now—to push away and suppress the onslaught of emotions that attacked him before. Focus on what matters. 

(Freddie. Auston. Auston and him.) 

"We might even get to take her home next week."

"I'm glad to hear that. Really glad, Mitch." 

"Thanks," Mitch means it. "Look, I'm sorry for… earlier." 

"Don't—" Freddie holds up his hand, stops him mid-sentence. "There's nothing to apologize for, okay?" 

"I went all crazy and acted like a child."

"You're under a lot of pressure lately with the premiere next week, your family and…"  
Even though Freddie trails off Mitch knows exactly what he's referring to, he really appreciates that it's left unspoken. These short hours he has with Freddie are the only escape from the mess that is his life these days. He doesn't want to ruin them. It may be selfish of them both for various reasons… but Mitch never claimed to be anything but that and no matter how sweet and kind Freddie is to him he’s a vampire—the epitome of selfishness and avidity.  
"Can we walk a bit?" Mitch winds his arm around Freddie's—like he would have done at Club _Ichor_. He hasn't done it before outside of work and at first, it feels weird, awkward. Because they usually just have lunch and talk. They have never met outside. Yet Mitch can feel himself melt against Freddie's body at the same time as Freddie relaxes and pulls him a bit closer.  
It's still casual, far from intimate or coupley; at least Mitch thinks it is. He has touched too many clients in so many more tempting and seducing ways, has sold his affection and adoration like he has sold his blood. Winding his arm around Freddie's and walking along Richmond Street in broad daylight is nothing remarkable. Or, it shouldn't be. 

Nevertheless, he feels… giddy. Lightheaded and warm. Strangely aware of the way other people look at them, put their heads together and whisper, not even hiding that they are talking about them. 

It's Freddie. They are staring at him, he thinks. Most vampires blend in with the crowd: not immediately recognized as what they are, too young, but too _human_ still—at least in North America. But not Freddie. No one could mistake him for what he is. Powerful. Ancient. _Immortal_. 

(Older than this entire continent.)

"Why are people always staring at you?" It's a rhetorical question. Because Mitch is used to it by now. Because no matter where they have met… they have always been the center of attraction and speculations. 

Only then does Freddie lean closer to him, murmuring into his ear. 

"They're not staring at me, Mitch. They're looking at _you_." He sounds amused. "None of these people are even noticing me. I could be naked, and they wouldn't." 

Mitch laughs out loud; this sudden bellowing cackle he finds so ugly and embarrassing and just too much, yet one he can't keep in whenever something is truly funny to him. 

"They're probably wondering what someone like you is doing with me." 

Freddie squeezes his arm slightly, pulls him closer—protective, almost painful. _Almost_ possessive. Although it doesn't last long enough for Mitch to be sure and then the grasp loosens again and he can see Freddie smile from the corner of his eye. 

"You really have no idea, do you? How beautiful you are? How gorgeous and special and mesmerizing? Three hundred years ago, kings would've lavished you with silk and jewels and locked you away or paraded you around. They would've gone to war for you." 

Maybe if Freddie would have paused his steps, would have turned to him or reached for him… maybe then Mitch would have laughed again, called him silly and filed this part of their conversation away as a joke. But Freddie is talking so casually, so lightly as if he's telling him snow is white and blood is red. 

And—Mitch has been aware that he's not ugly, maybe even good looking in a weird kind of way. He's used to clients admiring him or telling him how soft his skin is, how pretty he is when he's sitting on their laps… but it has always been in a very abstract way. As if he's a different person while he's working at the club. (He is.) Even with Auston telling him constantly how much he desires him, how stunning he is… it has been different. Not because he doesn't believe Auston, but Auston's love for him made him blindsided. 

Hearing Freddie thinking this too is shattering. Crushing everything he has known about himself. Leaving only sadness behind like a bitter taste on his tongue. Because he is as wrong as the others, beguiled by the red liquid that runs in Mitch's veins. 

He bites his lips and shakes his head. Swallows the words, hopes to swallow down the taste as well. 

"I'm sorry if I said something wrong, Mitch." 

"It's just… my _blood_." 

"It has nothing to do with your blood. Not at all. And it has nothing to do with why I'm here." Now finally Freddie stops him. In the middle of the sidewalk, on the corner of University Avenue—pedestrians streaming around them. He puts his hand under Mitch's chin so that Mitch can't do anything but look up and meet his eyes: so serious, so warm. Brown and beautiful. "I don't care about your blood, I don't care that you're pretty on the outside. Yes, you have the most delicious blood I’ve tasted since… probably a hundred years. And yes, you're stunning. I can't deny that without lying. But that's not why I care for you so much, why I rather spend time with you than anyone else, because—because that's all _you_." 

Mitch nods or tries to at least. Except that his body is frozen and shell shocked. He can't even blink, can't stand the idea of interrupting their connection. He shivers. 

"I hate my blood. I—just hate it."

And then without thinking, without even knowing that he would do it, Mitch falls into Freddie's arms, clings to him and presses against his chest. He soaks up Freddie's scent and the warmth that he's emanating even though he should be cold. But he isn't and he's encompassing Mitch as he returns the embrace. 

It's grounding, elevating and so so very good. Comforting like a blanket. Protective like he has always imagined it would be. 

He buries his face in Freddie's neck and inhales deeply—the fragrance of cool metal and crisp incense, mixed with something he can't place but that is purely Freddie. The sound that escapes him is a mix between a sigh and a sob, everything at once. Relief and happiness and sadness and despair because it's possible that he never felt more secure, more calm than in these long and way too short moments. With Freddie’s steady and strong heartbeat echoing through his mind. 

Slow, so slow—only one for every time Mitch inhales and exhales. 

Maybe the embrace it's still for the wrong reasons… But thankfulness is a way better one than the guilt he has felt before. 

"You have to get out of that place." Freddie whispers into his hair. "It's not good for you." 

If Mitch wasn't as content and exhausted as he is at the moment he would have laughed. Because yes, _Ichor_ isn't a good place for anyone except for the clients coming there for their pleasure. But he only tightens his grip around Freddie, pulls him closer even though that's almost impossible, rubs his face against Freddie's strong and solid chest. Refuses to let go of him for another minute. 

Then he finally releases him—reluctantly and not without immediately yanking him in again for a last quick hug: a goodbye that isn't really a goodbye, but they both know it should be. 

Then he finally steps back, brings an appropriate distance between them that immediately feels wrong… like a bucket of ice water, like someone sucking all the oxygen from his lungs. 

Then he finally raises his gaze and meets Freddie's eyes again, finds them all soft and gentle on him, so full of emotions that he immediately feels warmer again. That it's not hard to crack a smile. To find his optimism again. 

(Maybe Mitch is a vampire, too. Because he feels so much better, so much lighter and stronger now. Maybe he lives off tender affections and physical contact.)

"Thank you," he says. His voice is croaky, but not breaking anymore. 

"You're welcome. You always are." 

The traffic light switches to green again and Mitch doesn't know how many times it has done this since they stopped. But now they continue walking in an unspoken agreement. 

"Where are we going anyway?"

"To Eaton Centre. Because I need to get a new phone. But first to Nathan Philip's Square where you can buy me a hot dog or two because I'm hungry." 

Freddie laughs; this open and honestly delighted thing that makes his whole features go soft and that paints wrinkles in the corners of his mouth and eyes. It's probably Mitch's favorite smile of his, so fond and warm that he would do almost everything to see it. 

"I was wondering how long it would take until you got hungry again. But why do you have to buy a new phone?"

"Because I'm me." Mitch rolls his eyes, sighs theatrically before he starts to tell Freddie about the incident earlier while they walk past Osgoode Hall. 

-

Of course, Freddie doesn't only buy him the hot dogs, but also some Godiva chocolate in the food court before they wait to get served at the Apple Store. And of course, he insists on paying there as well, not even folding when Mitch uses his pout on him, almost shoving Mitch out of the way to hand over his credit card. 

Like it's nothing. _Because_ it's nothing to him. 

(A night with Mitch at _Ichor_ costs twice that much.) 

So Mitch stops fighting and just accepts the bag that is handed to him with a shiny new version of his old phone. He doesn't even say more than a quick thank you, although that's not even close to the gratitude that he really feels; buying a new phone hasn't really been in his financial plan for this month, not even for this year. 

He also doesn't say anything when they cross the street over to Hudson's Bay where he helps pick out a couple of new ties for Freddie that cost almost as much as the phone. Or when Freddie drapes his coat around his shoulders one hour later while they wait for the car. 

"I don't need it. And you're cold."

Mitch _is_ cold. But he's also not equipped to protest anymore, too happy and lighthearted. Just like Freddie is, because Mitch has never seen him smile as much as during the last two hours. 

Instead, he pulls the coat around him, closes his eyes for a second when he catches the scent that is lingering in the fabric. 

"I hate that you have to go back and deal with those people." He's pouting and he knows it. 

"It's business," Freddie replies; all smooth and casual. Like he doesn't despise them just as Mitch does. "I'm used to it."

"I know… but…" Mitch shrugs. Because it's pointless and his arguments are lost here. They both have no choice in this, and he may hate that it's Freddie's job to deal with guys like Mr. Bettman—but it's his job, too. And they wouldn't be here if it weren't for him. So he says nothing… aware that they are both thinking the same thing.

The car is a sleek and black Maybach with dark windows; the same type that Freddie always chooses when he's in town. But instead of getting in by himself Freddie gestures for Mitch to get in. 

“You take the car, I’ll walk back.”

“No, I—I can’t.”

“And I don’t care,” Freddie smiles. 

And Mitch is so relieved that he won’t have to deal with anymore stressed out people on the TTC that he only nods. Behind them, cars are starting to honk, annoyed at the sudden stop in traffic as if it would make a difference in the nightmare that is driving in downtown Toronto.

Their time is up—it doesn’t matter that Mitch isn’t ready to part yet. That he wants to hold onto the moment longer, hold onto Freddie. 

“You should come. To the premiere, I mean.” He blurts out, probably sounding a bit desperate, like he wants to stall time; which is part of the reason. But mostly he wants Freddie there. So he hurries to add that, aware that he’s blushing. 

“I know what I said earlier, but I’d really… it would make me really happy.” Mitch bites his lips, looks down; he’s ashamed that he’s asking for this. “But Auston—he can’t know about you… So, I can’t meet you or…” 

“Mitch…” A soft touch under his chin, quietly and gently forcing him to lift his face so that he has to face Freddie. Snowflakes melt on his hot cheeks, like ice-cold diamonds. “That’s okay. I understand.”

“Thank you.” His smile feels strange, maybe because he shouldn’t do this to Freddie. Maybe because there’s nothing else they can say now except for goodbye. 

Their hug is short, and not as fierce and tight as the one before, not as desperate. But Mitch still finds himself reluctant to let go, digs his fingers into Freddie’s back one last time before he stands on his tiptoes and brushes his lips against Freddie’s cheek; cool and smooth as always. It’s not the first time he kisses him, not even the first time he does it outside of the club, and yet… It feels different. Less playful, less casual. More intimate and earnest, loaded with something that he could only describe as tenderness and _want_.

It’s _thank you_ and _goodbye_ and something else that makes his lips tingle as he climbs into the car and waits until Freddie closes the door for him. 

It feels wrong when they pull away from the curb; sitting in Freddie’s car without him, making small talk with the driver, mostly because he can’t stand his own thoughts, has to distract himself from constantly touching his mouth that still tastes of Freddie’s skin. 

But when he unlocks the door to the little apartment in Leslieville that he’s sharing with Auston, when he finds the familiar sight and comforting scent of his life with Auston, the memories and proof of their love and togetherness… It hits him like a truck. Stabs him in the back like a knife.

His knees that have started to tremble while he climbed the stairs finally give up and he slides down the door until he sits on the floor. Buries his red hot face in his hands—sick with shame and fear.

He has always been aware that what he’s doing is wrong. Not telling Auston about his mom’s tumor, keeping his side job a secret… and now hiding and lying about Freddie. More lies, so many more lies with every time he meets Freddie, with every present that he stashes away in the box underneath his old hockey gear. He had thought it wouldn’t matter anymore, but it does and there's no escape, no way out anymore without hurting Auston, maybe losing him. 

No way but quitting his job, never setting foot into _Ichor_ again. Letting down his mom. Never seeing Freddie again. 

The image alone makes him shiver. A dry wretched sob escapes him. 

And he can't… _Can't_. 

He likes Freddie too much. The only person he can talk to. Can trust with everything. 

Mitch knows himself. He's too stupid, too weak and selfish to give that up. Even if it means getting tangled up more in this web of lies. 

He doesn't cry, doesn't allow himself more than a few minutes of self-pity—he doesn't deserve it. 

So he gets up, shoves himself from the ground; his legs are still shaking and his fingertips are dusty because it's been ages since they cleaned the hallway. Then he takes off Freddie's coat, embarrassed that he got it dirty, even though he's sure that Freddie wouldn't mind, wouldn't ask it back. 

The little red digits of the kitchen radio announce that it's almost 5pm and he knows that Auston would be home soon. That he has to hurry to hide the traces of his afternoon. Has to carefully fold the coat and shred the package and paper bag of the Apple Store. Has put his clothes into the washing machine and to shower off Freddie's scent from his hair and skin. 

Has to think of more lies. 

Because he can’t lose Auston.

It’s worth it. _He’s_ worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I’m nothing but predictable you can probably guess who’s POV the next chapter will be written in. But hey, I never said I wasn’t or that I was a great storyteller. 
> 
> I’m on [ **tumblr** ](https://miss-malheur.tumblr.com/). Come and talk to me, I’m nice.


	5. You're my head, you're my heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's not the first time Auston has seen Mitch acting, and it's not the first time Mitch has taken his breath away with his role and the emotions he displays. But tonight he's _other-worldly_. Tonight he's the male lead and there's nothing left of the Mitch Auston knows. Nothing but the physical shape and shell of his body. 
> 
> Sometimes Auston has to look away. Because he doesn't want to see Mitch like this. But then he has to look right back again because he can’t _not_ watch him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for taking so long with this chapter… I hope you haven’t given up on this story because I still plan on finishing it. But I had to focus on another story first.
> 
> Surprisingly, this chapter was both hard and also easy to get back into this story; hard because I wanted to get it right, but easy because I still love it so much. 
> 
> I hope you’ll like it too! 
> 
> Sarah read it beta and she probably spent more time on it than I did writing it. Which speaks more for her thoroughness than my writing speed, I can assure. Thank you, my dear, for all the time and effort and for making this better than it was. ♥ 
> 
> Title is, again, from Florence and the Machine’s [ **"No light, no light"** ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HGH-4jQZRcc) and I’ve been dying to use this one, because I love it so so much. 
> 
> [](https://imgur.com/3Thmqhb)  
> 

**You're my head, you're my heart**

Auston is late. He knew he'd be running late and told Mitch that he couldn't see him before the performance, but he's even later than he expected and they’re just about to close the doors when he hurries through the foyer and waves his ticket at the girl. 

The large room is already dark when he enters but the spotlights illuminating the stage are more than enough for him to take it all in. Everything is dyed grey or covered with grey fabric; the stage is bare except for various cubes made of concrete and even the theatre seating is makeshift stacks of grey coloured wood or stones. And it's hot; it's at least 80 degrees and Auston feels like he's running into a wall of dry, dry summer heat. He almost coughs because it's not only the heat but also a strange scent that's hanging in the air… thick and suffocating as if he inhaled a bag of powder or stone flour. 

Auston vaguely remembers Mitch complaining about Mo’s crazy perfectionism and the insane amount of work that went into transforming the old factory building so that it suits the play. 

He takes off his puffy winter jacket and looks for an empty seat; they aren't numbered but he spots one in the last row and makes his way over there, apologizing while he sneaks past the other people. There's just enough time to send a quick 'break a leg' to Mitch even though he probably won't read it anymore and then the room falls completely dark and quiet with only a single spotlight casting sharp and eerie shadows onto the stage. 

It's not the first time Auston has seen Mitch acting, and it's not the first time Mitch has taken his breath away with his role and the emotions he displays. Even when he helped Mitch to rehearse lines in their living room before and knew what the play was about—it's different when Mitch enters the stage and completely drops everything behind. But tonight he's _other-worldly_. 

With his quirkiness and cuteness, Mitch is usually cast for roles like the best friend of the leading character, as a younger brother or mischievous forest spirit to Mo's Oberon. 

But tonight he's the male lead and there's nothing left of the Mitch Auston knows. Nothing but the physical shape and shell of his body. 

He's mean and stolid and gross. He's sneaking and swearing and touching himself. And he's desperate and despairing and breaking his own heart on the stage, so open and real and vulnerable that Auston wants nothing more than getting up there and covering Mitch in his jacket or wrapping his arms around him so that no one is able to see what is _his_. 

Sometimes Auston has to look away. Because he doesn't want to see Mitch like this. But then he has to look right back again because he can’t _not_ watch him. Not like this. 

Half-naked and bare-chested. Jeans riding so low on his bony hips that they're barely covering the cleft of his ass, sweaty hair curling in the back of his neck and around his ears, skin smeared with concrete dust and tanning oil. 

It's all part of the play; the heat, the physical closeness of everyone on the stage, the rawness of the emotions. 

But when the performance finally ends with thundering applause Auston feels almost empty, bare… and at the same time filled with a thunderstorm; cracked up and bleeding out. 

Only Mitch can make him feel like this. Can make him feel _at all_. 

He wants to jump to his feet and go backstage so that he can pull Mitch into his arms, see his blinding smile up close and feel his body against his own—bony and fragile and tempting. Drink up the exaltation and the delight. _He needs to_. 

But everybody else is already standing and making their way to the exit of the theatre hall, or gathering their belongings and chatting excitedly about the play. So he has to wait until he can squeeze past the crowd and look for the side door Mitch told him about earlier. 

Auston's skin feels hot and itchy and everything about this situation annoys him so much that he has trouble not letting it show, or just downright starting to shove people out of his way. He's close to actually doing it when his eyes fall upon a man standing a couple of rows closer to the stage. 

Most of the time Auston doesn't pay a lot of attention to his surroundings, most of the time there's not much worth paying attention to anyway. And almost never when he's in a room with Mitch. But this guy is hard to miss. 

Tall and broad-shouldered he absolutely towers over everyone else in his vicinity, and even though most people in the audience are dressed up nicely he manages to make them look shabby and cheap. Despite the heat in the theatre, he's still wearing a suit jacket and a tie, both made of the finest fabric Auston has ever seen, dark grey wool with a silken shirt in the colour of Mitch's eyes. His hair is flaming copper and his skin is so pale - almost white - that Auston doesn't have to see his eyes to know that this man is a vampire like him. 

But then he turns as if he felt Auston's gaze and looks directly at him. 

It's like a cold hand reaching for him and clasping his throat, squeezing the air out of his lungs. Auston stops breathing, feels the other man's physical strength and his power like ice creeping down his spine. 

He is a vampire; and he's older than any other being Auston has ever met. 

Centuries compared to Auston's decades. 

This is a creature that has seen and fought countless wars, has watched everyone he loves die and brought death to hundreds of people to keep himself alive until he became untouchable as stone—he's everything Auston wanted to become when he asked his creator for the gift of immortality, when he gave up his humanity and emotions. 

This is one of the old ones. Powerful and deadly. One who walked the earth when vampires still lived off real blood and were feared and adored as demons and deities long before they were forced and bound by the Pact. 

Finally, the other man blinks and their visual bond breaks and Auston can breathe again. 

He doesn't know how long this encounter lasted, but by the time Auston has shaken off the dread seeping and creeping into his veins most of the people have cleared out the aisle and into the foyer. Still, he has trouble moving, keeping his composure and stepping out of his row. It's only his sheer willpower that refuses to cave and show how much this encounter affected him that keeps him going past the other vampire on his way over to the backstage door. 

It's like wading through a fog of freezing air, and it feels like an eternity, like a time-lapse—both of them smiling courteously, both of them cataloguing and memorizing everything remarkable about the other; their age, their experiences and memories. Their size, their physical strength, their scent. 

Auston's sand and summer sun, his rust and amber and prickly pear. His olive skin and darkness. 

The other man's thunder and winter cold, his titanium and leather and bitter bay leaf. All white and grey and pale. 

A scent that is strangely familiar, that triggers a feeling and a memory he can't place, but that's crawling down his spine and scratching in the back of his head, claws on the strings of his heart. 

It's the first time Auston has ever felt young, small, threatened almost; and he hates it. He's not used to it anymore—he's older than most of the vampires he's met, taller and stronger. 

But then he hears his name, hears Mitch's voice, smells his scent and then Mitch is in his arms; sweaty, sweet and smiling so much that Auston forgets about everything else. 

He's still in costume, nothing but jeans and skin, and he's breakable and brimming with life. Smelling of salt and concrete, of spring flowers and autumn fruits, of everything that is good in the world and Auston's to hold onto. A waterfall of words and emotions for Auston's desperate and starving soul. 

A waterfall he needs to stop because he can't stand the thought of anyone else seeing Mitch like this. So he brings his hands around Mitch's body and under his ass and lifts him, carries him away. Presses his lips against Mitch's until Mitch has to push him away laughingly so that he can get oxygen into his lungs again. 

"Did you like it? What do you think? Oh my god, it was so… so good, wasn't it?" Mitch says breathlessly. "Zach is brilliant. I mean this was all, all his work, all his ideas. And Willy, what do you think about him? Wasn't he amazing?"

Auston likes Willy, but right now he couldn't care less. 

" _You_ were amazing." 

Mitch laughs, hits him playfully on his shoulder before he slips out of Auston's arms to stand on his own legs again. His cheeks are still flushed, and Auston knows that's not only because of the heat in the room and the excitement of the applause.

"You're always saying that." 

"That's because it's always true." 

" _C'mon_ , Aus, be real." 

If they hadn't seen each other in the last four days, or if he hadn’t been forced to sit through two hours of a play with Mitch on the stage half-naked… maybe then Auston would have teased him. But now he can't. He's completely overwhelmed by Mitch's magic. 

"You were amazing, Mitch," he tightens his hold around Mitch's waist, needing to keep him _close_ —the thought of not touching him unbearable. "I'm sure Willy was great, but I couldn't take my eyes from you. Couldn't look at anyone else. Not even for a second."

"You're sure you're not saying that because I was shirtless?" 

"Well… it certainly didn't help me to focus on anyone else. You're gorgeous and you know that I always think that." 

Mitch blushes again and bows his head; he doesn't like it when Auston tells him the truth—doesn't believe it most of the time. 

"It's hard to believe when you're on a stage with a half-naked Willy." 

" _Fuck_ Willy." This time Auston has to close his eyes, remind himself to not spit out the words. To be patient because this politeness and modesty is part of the reason he loves Mitch so much; he's so beautiful yet unaware of it. “He could be naked and I would still watch you.” 

Finally, Mitch laughs, leans his head back and displays the smooth stretch of his neck. So beautiful and yet so unaware that he's in a room with a dozen vampires—so tempting, so alluring. 

But Auston can feel them, their gazes, their attention: heavy and hungry. And he knows he has to get Mitch out of here before he bares his teeth at them. 

The air backstage is even hotter, moister and the scent of too many humans crammed into too-narrow rooms and hallways is almost suffocating. It smells of sweat, of makeup, and prickling sour of sparkling wine. When it was first him who dragged Mitch with him it's now the other way around and he dutifully follows Mitch while he hugs his coworkers, still excited and high from the adrenaline of the performance. 

He congratulates Willy and takes a pic of him and Mitch, cheeks pressed together and showing off their best duck faces before blowing him a kiss. Then Mitch introduces him to Noelle who played the female lead and is absolutely adorable—and a vampire: newly hatched and a baby compared to Auston if the way she looks at him with barely veiled awe is enough to go by. Her skin is still soft, her face still round and her eyes don't have that starving and greedy glow yet. She's bursting with life and delight. 

Not older than three to five years, not ever having tasted a drop of real human blood. 

Auston is unsure if he should envy her or pity her. But he only gives her a quick hug and compliments her on her first successful premiere. 

Then he lets himself be pulled away to Mo and Zach. Unlike most of the actors and crew members they’re holding water bottles and look exhausted, happy but spent. 

Even if Auston didn't know the rules here and what Mitch expects him to do or say, he would have told them the same. They are both brilliant and humble, and even though Auston couldn't pay much attention to the play itself he's forever thankful that they recognized Mitch's talent, and even more that they gave him a home in their company.

"You wrote the screenplay?"

Zach nods. 

"It was really really good. You should get the rights for it."

"Yeah, I'm on it already." Mo laughs. "You're coming with us for drinks?"

Before Auston has a chance to open his mouth Mitch winds his arm around him and answers for him. 

"Of course! I've barely seen him for the last couple of weeks. Do you think I'll let him go home alone now?"

Auston isn't disappointed. He didn't expect anything else—it's not exactly a tradition, but although it kind of is. Mitch and his friends worked so hard in the weeks leading up to the first performance; they deserve to celebrate their success and release all the pent up tension. 

If he wants to take Mitch home and spread him on their bed and devour him… If he wants to undress Mitch and admire his body when it's all _his_ before kissing and licking over every inch of it… If he wants to lift Mitch's legs and drape them over his shoulder to eat him out and suck his taste until he was lightheaded? 

That has to wait. 

Because this is Mitch's night and Auston has no claim on him. 

~~But he wishes he did~~. 

__

They go to their usual bar, and as usual, Mitch is already a little drunk by the time they arrive there, all bubbly and giggling in the Lyft they shared with Willy and Zach, squeezed tightly against Auston in the middle of the backseat; breath moist and hot against Auston's throat when he reaches for him before they follow the others into the bar. 

"You're tired? You don't look very excited," he whispers into Auston's ear. 

"I think you're excited enough for both of us. " 

Mitch pouts a little bit. "You don't have to come… I know you had a tough week, too."

Auston would probably have rathered swallow glass than part from Mitch tonight—not when he's like this. Radiating cheerfulness and happiness, charming and clingy and flirty. Not when it's been weeks since he last even had a shadow of this Mitch. 

He says so and eagerly watches the flush creep into Mitch's cheeks, how his eyes turn darker and he gasps a little bit before he melts closer against Auston's body; face buried into Auston's neck, teeth nipping gently on the cooler skin there. 

"I'll be good, I promise, only vodka tonic tonight for me. No gin, no weed."

As much as Auston loves to hear this, as much as his heart speeds up at the words and the implications, he has to object. 

(Because he has no claim on Mitch.) 

"This is your night… you can do what you want."

"And I want _you_. I want _you_ inside me, want _you_ to drink from me later. I _need_ to be all yours." 

Auston barely remembers anything after this. Only how he followed Mitch around the bar, either physically or just with his eyes when Mitch was on the dancefloor with Willy or Justin. How he observed him whenever he lifted his glass and took a tiny sip—their eyes meeting no matter how many people were separating them. How he soaked up every second of the show Mitch put on for only him. 

He's not the only one noticing. He never is. 

Dressed the way Mitch is tonight, with tight jeans and a simple white shirt. Laughing the way he does tonight, with his neck bared and his whole body—almost every human and definitely every vampire is watching him too, trying to lure his attention away from ~~Auston~~ his friends. 

Because Mitch is like a signal fire wherever he goes. A blinding light that draws everyone's attention to him whenever he enters a room. A drop of blood in an ocean. 

For every vampire in this club tonight. 

Mitch's scent is almost buried under layers of other scents: sharp and disgusting sweat, the artificial floral and woody notes of perfumes, alcohol and the sticky sweetness of weed. 

But it's unmissable. 

Even sweet little Noelle's eyes widen when she catches a whiff of it. 

Auston wants to bare his fangs at her, at everyone who even looks at Mitch with interest because Mitch is his. 

It's bad behaviour. It's rude and territorial. But Auston is weak and Mitch doesn't know how he looks. 

Finally, it's too much for him to bear and he finishes his water before he crosses the little dancefloor and makes his way over to where Mitch is still goofing around, arm in arm with Willy and Zach now. 

If he shoves a pale-haired and slightly stocky guy away with a little more force than necessary… well, Auston never claimed to be a patient man. 

"Auston!" The delight on Mitch's face is enough to brush all remorse and guilt away. 

"You're ready to go home?" 

"Yesss!" 

"Can you look more eager? Not everybody needs to know you're gonna get laid tonight."

"Sorry, not sorry." Mitch bats his lashes innocently at Willy and then presses himself against Auston's chest, buries his face in Auston's neck. It's only for show, but something settles in Auston's blood at the display, and also at the barely veiled envy he spots on some of the people around them. He tightens his grip around Mitch, pulls him closer to prevent Mitch from slipping away from him. 

But Mitch literally melts into Auston and breathes a short kiss against his cheek before he turns back to Willy. 

"Get yourself a nice man and stop being jealous." With a little wink, he first yanks Willy towards him and then gently pushes him towards Zach who's waving them goodbye, as oblivious as everything else that's going on. 

"Why do you have to be so obvious all the time?" Auston mumbles into Mitch's ear as he drapes his jacket around him and then drapes himself around him, soaking up the heat that Mitch emanates all the time. 

"Obvious? Are you kiddin' me? I almost literally spelled it out for them before, but they are so dumb. The only thing I can do at this point is probably smash their faces together and make them kiss."

"I don't get why you think you have to do something." 

"Because you don't have to work in the same room with them." 

Auston doesn’t need to see Mitch's eye roll, he can hear it in his voice. So he doesn't reply but instead drags his nose over the spot behind Mitch's ear that always smells so good while they wait for their Uber. 

__

They don't make it to the bed. 

Because Mitch basically jumps him the moment they are in their apartment and have closed the door behind them. 

It's not fancy. It's not sweet. It's nothing like Auston planned or pictured it. 

It's needy and greedy and possessive. 

How Mitch pushes him against the wall and starts tearing at their clothes with hurried and clumsy fingers. How he whines and curses when he can't get the fabric out of their way fast enough. How he just turns around and arches his back the second he's managed to finally open his jeans and pull them over his ass. 

It's not gentle. Not at all. 

It's fast and hard and wild. 

Both tangled in jackets and shirts; no skin on skin, no caresses. Their fingers entwined so tightly that their knuckles are white and Auston's teeth sunken deeply into Mitch's neck—sucking until there's a huge hot-red bruise. Not drawing blood, not drinking. Not yet. But Mitch is shivering underneath his body and begging him to drink from him. 

It's everything they needed. 

And it's so very good that they almost black out and the only reason Auston doesn't is that he has to hold Mitch upright, to prevent him from crumbling, that he has to gather him in his arms and carry him to the bedroom while Mitch only clings to him, trembling and giggling and sobbing. 

Exhausted but radiating bliss and warmth. Like he's the fucking sun. 

~~He is. He is the sun and the moon and every star of Auston's universe. And there is nothing Auston wouldn't do for him~~. 

It takes almost every ounce of Auston’s control to disentangle himself from Mitch's arms after he lowers him softly onto their bed; sweet and pliant and so, so, very cuddly. But the need to take care of him is bigger. So Auston carefully winds himself out of the embrace and starts to peel off Mitch's jeans. They are sticky with cum just like his shirt—a cooling white mess that should be disgusting and yet isn't. 

It's _Mitch_. Nothing about him is disgusting to Auston. Nothing about him isn't amazing and beautiful. So he leans in again and kisses him, kisses his lips and his chin, and then a soft path down over pecs, abs and the dip of Mitch's hips. Licks up the different scents and tastes of Mitch's body and then sucks another bruise on the pale inside of his thighs. 

Marks the spot he intends to bite later, licks the smooth skin—burningly hot with all the blood gathering there and all his for the taking. 

"C'mon, Aus… just…"

"Just what? What do you want? Tell me." 

"Just bite me, _please_. Drink from me. I need to be yours." 

Having this amazing and sweet boy ask for this; for Auston's teeth, for the pain and the pleasure. Feeling Mitch's fingers in his hair shaking and pushing him closer. Seeing him stretched out underneath him like a feast… It's almost enough for Auston to give in. 

It's everything he wanted since he left him four days ago. Everything he ever wanted since he first laid eyes on him. The reason he comes home at night and hates leaving in the morning. The reason he started to fear eternity. 

"I will. I will, babe. Just let me take care of you first." He presses a long, lingering kiss against the side of Mitch's knee and then pries Mitch's fingers loose so that he can sit up. Mitch's little whine is almost enough to lean back in and cover his body with his own. Is enough to suddenly feel cold and hollow because making Mitch unhappy is going against everything he wants. Because parting from Mitch is actually painful. 

"Don't wanna have to leave you after." 

Auston discards his clothes on the way to the bathroom and the kitchen, where he gets a wet cloth and snacks. He doesn't care about the mess he's making—only needs to be back with Mitch and naked as soon as possible. Needs to feel him skin on skin. _Needs to taste his blood_. 

Like the air, he's breathing. 

And when he has finally cleaned Mitch from sweat and the dried remains of their lovemaking. When he's finally holding him in his arms where he belongs, while Mitch is gulping down the milk and the cookies, he realizes that he stopped breathing and that his heart is racing inside his chest. 

The absence of Mitch was unbearable; suffocating and oppressing. 

He buries his face in the soft mop of hair, inhales with deep and greedy gasps, his nose brushing over the warm skin of Mitch's scalp, wandering down to the tempting spot behind Mitch's ear, where he smells so pure and so sweet that Auston can't stop himself anymore. 

It's only Mitch's little yelp that awakens him from the haze and he loosens his grip so that Mitch can sit up and turn around in his grasp. There are angry red bruises forming already where his fingers have clenched down hard into Mitch's skin. 

"Hey, you can't leave bruises, Auston! I've—I've told you before. I have another performance tomorrow." But he's laughing when he says this, and then presses a kiss to Auston's lips that tastes of rich, dark chocolate and cool, clean milk. 

Auston frowns and pulls a face that only succeeds in making Mitch laugh harder. 

"You look like I just had liver or snails, not cookies."

"Chocolate is yucky." He pouts; the flavour is very prominent and very sweet, it covers too much of Mitch's fresh and unique scent. Will tarnish the taste of his blood if Auston waits too long to bite him now. But Mitch needs sugar if Auston doesn't want him to pass out when he feeds off him.

"Are you okay? You're acting a bit strange tonight." 

Auston starts to shake his head but then halfway stops himself and nods. "I've missed you. Missed you so much and… seeing you on stage, it was just—So much. Overwhelming." 

Mitch swallows and then quickly puts the plate aside; places his hand around Auston's face. "I've missed you, too. I always miss you even when you're just gone for a couple of days. I hate waking up alone and I hate how big the bed feels without you, how empty I am… As if I'm drifting away, belonging nowhere." 

"Mitchy…"

"You're my home, Auston, my center. My everything. I know you don't wanna hear this… and I know I shouldn't put this on you, but it's the truth." The last words are only whispers—insecure and shy, almost scared. His fingers tremble against Auston's skin, around his wrists and they feel weak when Mitch pulls the blanket aside and guides Auston's hand down and between his legs where Auston already left bruises. 

"Drink from me… _please_. I need it." 

Auston wants to address the despair, the fear that has brought Mitch close to tears, he wants to dissolve it and tell him that there's no day when Auston doesn't dream about making Mitch his for eternity. That it's everything he wants, has wanted for a long time now and that he hates time for taking Mitch away from him. 

Every day; every day Mitch ages a tiny bit, every day a small part of Mitch disappears—so slowly but inevitable. 

But Mitch is begging him again and Auston can't deny him anymore. Can't deny himself having Mitch in the only way he can keep him. 

The scent of Mitch's skin is so intense that it almost makes him dizzy: still sharp and musky from their lovemaking, mingled with the clean freshness of water, and the sweetness of sunshine that Mitch always radiates. When his teeth tear the smooth skin Mitch's fingers tighten around his scalp but his inhale tampers out in a low moan as Auston starts to suck the rich dark blood; thicker and cooler than usual when Auston feeds off his wrist or neck. Riper and saltier, more autumn than spring, red apples and a hint of bitterness from the tonic water and crisp from the vodka. Yet still delicious, mouthwatering and so intoxicating that it's as hard as ever to stop. 

But he has to. _He has to_. 

Even though Mitch holds him there, urges him to take more. 

He has to. He has already taken too much. 

"Mitchy… honey, I can't." 

"Don't care." 

Auston knows that it's dangerous, that there's a point where the donor gets delirious, not feeling pain anymore, lightheaded and dizzy with the feeling of giving blood, of giving pleasure. And even more dangerous… a point where he could get so caught up in his thirst that it would turn into sheer bloodlust; it would cloud his senses and overwrite every thread of rationality so that he couldn't stop anymore. 

It's alluring. Because Mitch tastes mind-blowingly good. Because he's so responsive and arches so beautifully underneath him. Because he literally begs him. 

But Auston needs him more than the burning hunger inside him craves Mitch's blood. Loves him more. 

So he laps up the droplets that have spilled, dips the tips of his tongue into the deep welts he caused until the wounds are clean and the flesh is palerosysweet before he presses the cloth over it to still the bleeding. Even through the fabric he can feel the tempting pulse of the blood; hot and calling for him. 

Mitch pouts adorably when he crawls up his body and switches their position so that they’re side by side, makes sure that he can still apply pressure on the wound. It's a slightly awkward stretch, especially when Mitch refuses to meet his eyes—stubborn as ever when he doesn't get what he wants. 

"I could've taken it."

Auston shakes his head. 

"Not when you have to perform tomorrow." 

At last, Mitch sighs and turns his face so that Auston can steal another chocolate sticky kiss. It's kind of ruining the remaining flavour of blood on his tongue. But Mitch loves kissing and Auston loves to kiss Mitch, to see his expression melt and an exhausted little smile appear. 

"More cookies? I don't want you to pass out again."

A headshake. 

"I'm good. But… can you tell me something? A story, a fairytale. And watch me while I'm sleeping." 

"Attention-whore," Auston whispers fondly. But Mitch’s question is unnecessary: he always stays awake after he drinks from him. 

"Only for you."

Mitch lashes are fluttering; long and dark against his very pale skin. Even his lips are white and cool. Auston took a lot. Not too much, but more than usual. He leans in and kisses each eyelid, then the tip of Mitch's nose. Again and again, until Mitch is all relaxed. Cradled against him, naked and full of trust—as if Auston couldn't easily kill him with his love.

"A fairytale?" He asks. Although he doesn't need to; he already knows what Mitch wants. 

"Tell me how we met for the first time."

It's Mitch's favourite story. 

__

Auston loves it, too. 

Loves to retell it over and over again. While Mitch's fingers caress his back and his shoulders, eyes on Auston's face, like Auston is his sun and moon and stars, too. Until the movement stops and Mitch's eyes close. 

The little smile at the corner of his mouth as he falls asleep is the most precious thing Auston has ever seen.

Mitch is the life he left behind a long time ago and he needs him like air, more than the blood that’s running in his veins. Auston can go months without that, can get substitutes for that, but he can't be without Mitch's happiness, without his enthusiasm and tenderness for everyone. Without his anger and his despair and his love. 

He would starve, parch away or freeze. Become the empty shell he always wanted to be before he met Mitch. 

When he received the gift of blood and eternity he thought he'd pay for it with his emotions. Was willing to do so in exchange. 

But the price that he's paying is higher. 

It was finding this boy and falling for him. It's watching him wither away and die. It'll be living forever without him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m on [ **tumblr** ](https://miss-malheur.tumblr.com/). Come and talk to me, I’m nice.


	6. Are you hurting the one you love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He catches the scent even before he has opened the door.  
> He knows it by heart; would be able to find it among thousands of people. Bright and sweet like a ray of sunlight breaking through the clouds.  
> A scent he's dreaming about when he's at home, far away from this city with its pillars of concrete and steel.  
> A scent he's missing when he's travelling, when he's surrounded by millions of others that just can't compare.  
> A scent he's been trying to forget for months but has been unable to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somehow it takes me longer and longer to write chapters for this story… which isn’t because I don’t like it anymore but only because work and real life sucks but also because I’m working on two other projects at the moment. But I hope you still like an update because I still love this story. 
> 
> I have to thank my wonderful beta [ **Jules** ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarnerToMatthews/profile) who was so encouraging that I sometimes cried about all the lovely comments they left ♥ 
> 
> Title like always from [ **Florence and the Machine** ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ToyBi_XTbIE)
> 
> [](https://imgur.com/eA2p4ak)  
> 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this chapter

He catches the scent even before he has opened the door. Unexpected, just like the knock that ripped him out of his thoughts. But even through the thick wooden door the hint of apples and first snow is unmistakable. 

He knows this scent by heart; would be able to find it among thousands of people. Bright and sweet like a ray of sunlight breaking through the clouds. 

A scent he's dreaming about when he's at home, far away from this city with its pillars of concrete and steel.

A scent he's missing when he's travelling, when he's surrounded by millions of others that just can't compare. 

A scent he's been trying to forget for months but has been unable to. 

Freddie hesitates for a moment, hand pressed against the dark surface of the door. He's surprised, not only because it's late, but mostly because he wasn’t expecting Mitch, not tonight, not here. 

It's overwhelming, the way it always is whenever he's around him. Confusing, tempting, alleviating. So much that he usually has to prepare himself, to sort his thoughts and his feelings. Make sure he's well fed so he can focus. 

Tonight he's none of that. 

And for a few seconds he contemplates not opening the door. But then Mitch knocks again and Freddie can hear his heartbeat peeking up and gets another whiff of his scent; this time spiked with nervousness, with anxiousness, sharp like ashes, like bitter red berries. 

Mitch is agitated, maybe sad, maybe scared. 

Not opening the door and leaving him like this… not trying to help him and disappointing him—it's going against his nature. Like making himself drown or stop breathing. 

Not seeing Mitch is impossible. 

Being in his presence is always better, always more thrilling, calming and overwhelming than he expected. 

So he opens the door. 

Only to realize that he’s not prepared for the sight of Mitch; just like he never was before even when he thought he was. 

But he's not prepared; because whenever he thought before that he was, he realized that he wasn't. 

Mitch's eyes are wide open in surprise, startled—as scared as his scent implied. 

"You're here," he breathes; almost astonished. 

"Where else should I be?" 

"I don't know… in a meeting? At a business dinner? At Ichor?" 

Freddie huffs. "I don't go there when you're not there. I hate that place even more than you do." 

Mitch looks so afflicted by his harsh tone and the contempt in his words that Freddie immediately regrets them and steps back to let Mitch in. He follows Mitch with his eyes as he tentatively takes in the living area of the suite. He looks small and timid in a way Freddie hasn't seen for a long time—if ever. But Mitch is a great actor. Has to be. Not only to be on stage, but also to put on a show every night at Ichor where he sells his companionship and his blood. Where he makes his clients believe that he's everything they ever wanted. 

(It's not really a lie. He is everything they could ever want.) 

"How did you find me?" Freddie is very sure he never gave Mitch his room number, and he's also sure that the staff at the reception wouldn't give it away without calling him. 

"I… I slipped into the elevator and waited until someone got in with a key card for the higher floors. Then I—I just knocked on every door till I got here." 

"You… you know that you could've texted me." 

Mitch shrugs. He won’t meet Freddie's gaze and pulls the lapel of his coat higher. It's the one Freddie gave him four weeks ago; the fabric dark and way too big on his slim frame like he’s drowning in it. 

"I wasn't sure if you wanted to see me after—" 

"I didn't." Freddie cuts in.

Freddie could probably hit Mitch and he wouldn't have gotten a reaction like this: Mitch flinches and looks up at Freddie, eyes wide and so shocked that he can literally see the colour bleeding out of his face. Then Mitch lowers his gaze and turns around towards the door again. 

But Freddie steps into his way and places his hand on Mitch's chest. Stops him from leaving with a gentle touch. 

"I shouldn't have come… I—I'm so sorry, this is so inappropriate, " he stammers. 

And yes, he's right, he shouldn't have come, he should have texted Freddie in advance. But now he's here and he's so obviously agitated that Freddie can't let him go. Because no matter what, it's _Mitch_ , and Freddie would never send him away, would never not want to be with him. 

No matter how much Mitch has hurt him. 

He tilts Mitch's face upward so that Mitch has to look at him again—that he can inspect Mitch. There's a strange shimmer under his eyes, the skin bluish and almost see-through—as if Mitch hasn't slept in days. (Or as if someone drank more from him than is allowed.)

"Mitch." 

Then Mitch is suddenly in his arms; is pressed up against his chest and he's shaking and cold even through his coat and Freddie forgets about all his anger. All his hurt. 

It's so easy. With Mitch everything is easy. With Mitch he stops _thinking_. 

"Mitch… what's wrong?" He pulls him in and wraps his arms around him, makes himself taller so that he can encompass Mitch fully, can protect him even though there is no danger here. There’s no reason for him to feel like this. Nothing except that Mitch obviously needs this because he’s trembling and Mitch's hand tightens around his back, dig into the flesh of his shoulders as if he needs Freddie's strength and protection. 

"Mitch?" He repeats, worried and confused. Mitch's scent is off—not wrong. Just… different. More bitter, more cold, with a sourness underneath that isn’t quite reminiscent of oranges in Sicily. "You're worrying me." 

"I… I don't know," he whispers. "But I don't want to impose if you don't want me here." 

Freddie can't help to roll his eyes. "I want you here, Mitch, I can't even _imagine_ not wanting you here." 

Mitch's little laugh sounds fake, choked and sarcastic. But he doesn't loosen his grip and his scent turns a little sweeter, a little less wrong. 

"Why are you here, Mitch?"

"I missed you. Didn't you miss me, too?" 

Of course. Of course, Freddie missed him. There hasn't been a single day where he didn't miss Mitch since he met him half a year ago. And Freddie feels like he has to know that. Mitch has a growing collection of gifts and souvenirs that should tell him how much and how often Freddie thinks about him. 

(Or maybe he hasn't. Maybe he throws them away. But he can't believe that, not when Mitch always looks so overwhelmed when he unwraps them, when he sometimes even cries.) 

So Freddie nods. There's no need in hiding it. Especially not when it's another thing that helps to reduce Mitch's tension, makes him sigh a little and shift closer against him, hide his face in Freddie's neck. 

His hair brushes Freddie's cheek; cool and soft, a little wet from the fog outside. And underneath there is the scent of his warm blood, pulsing fast and alluringly in his jugular vein. It smells so good that Freddie can feel the flesh of his teeth prickle and his stomach rumble.

(It's been weeks since he has last tasted Mitch.) 

But he only caresses Mitch's back gently, a movement that is probably damped by the thick coat he's still wearing. And he waits. Until Mitch is ready to tell him. Freddie is a patient man; he can wait centuries. Has waited centuries for someone like Mitch. 

Finally, Mitch brushes his nose over Freddie's throat, sighs quietly—as if Freddie's cold and hard skin is something familiar and welcome. Then he disentangles himself and steps away reluctantly—as if Freddie's stone-like body is something he takes comfort in and isn't disgusted with. 

"Thank you." Blue eyes blink up at him. "Thank you for not sending me away… and for missing me." 

With some last hesitation, he slips out of the coat and bites his lower lip; but there's a smile curling at the corners of his mouth and Freddie knows the insecurity is mostly fake now. It's as amusing as it's annoying, and he steps away from the door to walk over into the seating area. 

Behind him he can hear Mitch taking off his shoes and placing the coat over one of the hangers, then he follows Freddie with his almost soundless and graceful footsteps. Freddie doesn’t turn around at first, even though he wants to watch him, because if there’s one thing he will never get tired of; it’s the sight of Mitch in his living space.

He wants to watch him fill this place with his scent and his light, like how he fills every room he steps into. He always wants to see Mitch wherever he goes, always have him near. A concept that should make Freddie uneasy, because it would be asking for too much of Mitch. But he wants him, wants his soft fingertips and his pretty eyes and sunshine laughter. 

(Wants all the gentle touches and fluttering lashes and youthful giggles that he can evoke in Mitch.) 

In the end, Freddie turns around, because he _can't_ not. Because it's _Mitch_ and he has to take whatever he's willing to give him. 

In the dimmed light of the room Mitch's skin looks golden, radiating. But it's nothing compared to the look in his eyes when he walks over to the wall of glass that gives way to the magnificent view of the skyline at night, half-hidden by clouds of fog. It paints the sharp lines of concrete and steel softer, dyes everything in hues of orange and pink—even the massive needle of the CN Tower looks elegant like this and not like the brutal triumph of humankind over gravity. Droplets of rain slide down on the glass, reflecting the thousand of illuminated windows and street lights down below; fragile and ever-changing and beautiful because of that. 

It's breathtaking; the sight and Mitch taking in the sight. 

Freddie thought he was used to it, he has seen this so often he usually doesn't notice it anymore. But tonight it's different. The mist and the colours are different; they take off the edge of realism, they add magic to something that is usually mundane. They melt the hardness away and only leave dreams and hopes behind. 

When Mitch turns around and meets his eyes again they are wide and his lips are quivering. He looks overwhelmed, lost and lonely—so very young and very vulnerable. Very beautiful and very thankful. 

Freddie swallows; unable to move as Mitch comes closer to him and reaches for his hands. But at the last moment he stops himself and lets his arms drop to his side. 

"This is…" He doesn't finish the sentence. Yet he doesn't need to, Freddie can read it in his gaze. "Thank you." 

"You don't—" 

Mitch puts his finger over his lips, silences him with the most effective gesture. Innocent as ever. As if Freddie isn't longing for his blood that is right _there_ , thrumming hot and delicious through the thin skin of Mitch's fingertip, pulsing against his lips.

(His for the taking. Because Mitch wouldn't say no.) 

"I do. I want to. Accept it." 

So Freddie just nods. And then Mitch smiles, cups his face and brushes his thumb over the corner of Freddie's mouth; tempting and teasing. Mysterious and alluring like the fog outside, covering everything that is ugly about Freddie's desire for him with something beautiful.

He doesn't know how much time has passed until Mitch breaks their contact and speaks again.

"Why didn't you come to see me at Ichor?" 

His tone is loftily, but Freddie isn't fooled by it—the hurt is tangible underneath the casualness, and a cruel part of Freddie is glad about it. He leans against the sideboard and watches Mitch busying himself with the bottles of liquor on the golden tablet there, watches him pouring amber scotch into one of the crystal tumblers and clear vodka into another one. The clicking of the icecubes he adds into the last one is the only sound in the otherwise silent room. 

"Because you lied to me." 

The silver tong clatters onto the sleek surface of the buffet. 

"I didn't! I—I’d never lie to you." Mitch looks so horrified and hurt that Freddie instantly wants to believe him. "What do you mean?"

"Your boyfriend—" 

"Auston."

"I've seen the two of you." 

Of course he did. Mitch had told him he would, told Freddie that he couldn't talk to him that night. Because Auston could spot them, could hear them. Could figure out that they are seeing each other regularly and that Mitch trusts him with the things he hides from Auston. 

"I'm sorry, but I've told—"

"Don't." Freddie lifts his hand and interrupts him before he finishes the sentence. It's not about Mitch not talking to him, not giving him more than a too short and too small smile. "You lied when you said that he would leave you if he knew about your family." 

"I—" Mitch looks at him with nothing but confusion in his eyes. He's pale, and it's obvious that he really doesn't understand what Freddie is referring to. 

"I watched both of you, Mitch, and I watched _him_. I watched him the whole time while we waited for you. I watched him when you came into the audience after the play. He—he didn't bother with anyone else in the whole room, and he certainly didn't the second you called his name." 

(It's also a lie because Freddie knows that Auston paid attention to someone else besides Mitch; because Auston paid attention to _him_. But only because Freddie's presence attracts younger vampires, because his age and his power are like a black hole—dark and magnetic.) 

"I don't know him, but I knew that look on his face. That guy would never leave you. That guy is clearly besotted with you. That guy loves you—more than you know and more than he loves himself." 

Mitch just blinks up at him, so confused that Freddie realizes he really didn't know. 

"You're—no, that, that can't be." Mitch whispers, shakes his head in disbelief. 

"Trust me, Mitch. Trust my instincts on this. Your boyfriend is in love with you, and you're blind to not see it… so yeah, don't be scared; tell him about your family. He might be pissed, but probably more because you didn't trust him enough to tell him." 

Freddie lets go of Mitch’s arm and turns around to finish fixing their drinks. He's sick of this conversation; it's selfish, but he doesn't want to waste more of his time with Mitch by talking about his boyfriend. 

The icecubes clink in the beautiful glass when he hands it to Mitch: a sweet and innocent sound. It's the only sound in the room except for Mitch's labored breathing. From his expression Freddie can tell that he's taking a moment to comprehend what he has just heard. It doesn't fit with everything he's learned so far—with everything his father had taught him about being a disappointment, not worth of any attention, about Mitch being arrogant and selfish and useless for choosing acting instead of going for money. 

"You don't know Auston… you don't know what he's done—" 

"And I don't want to," Freddie cuts him off again, so impatient and harsh that Mitch flinches and looks up at him with wide, scared eyes. It's wrong, _so wrong_ —Mitch shouldn't be afraid of him. Mitch needs someone he fully trusts, and for selfish reasons Freddie wants to be that person. He closes his eyes, tries to calm himself down; he's hungry and Mitch's presence isn't helping at all, not right now. But finally he gets himself under control again.

"I'm sorry, Mitch. I didn’t mean to be so harsh. Tell me, please, I want to help… I just don't understand why you’d rather keep lying to him about what's happening at your home." 

It's the only thing Mitch hasn't told him so far. Mostly because Mitch barely talks about his boyfriend—probably because he's aware how Freddie feels about him.

And again, he shakes his head; with a sad smile at first, but it quickly becomes wider and - not less fake - but more honest, as if Mitch represses every sad thought until only his sweetness is there. It's painful to watch, and reminds Freddie of the one time he watched Mitch in a play. An actor who gets everyone to believe him even though they can clearly see that it's just a role. 

"It's okay—I'll sort it out. I… I'm just tired. C-Can I just stay here tonight and not think about anything?"

Who is Freddie to say no to him? 

He closes his eyes for a second, then nods. 

"Of course." 

"Thank you."

Mitch's soft kiss upon his cheek and the relief in his face is worth it. But before Freddie can lean in and soak up his warmth, Mitch is stepping back again and walking over to the windows. He takes a sip of his vodka and shivers as if he's cold. Wraps his arms around his body as if he still needs to protect himself. 

It's the reason Freddie wants nothing more than pulling him into his arms and it's the reason he doesn't. Instead he picks up the phone to order some food to the room. He doesn't have to ask Mitch what he wants—he knows, but even if he wouldn't he would just order the whole menu. Because he wants to give Mitch the world and Mitch won't let him. Because this is the only thing Mitch would accept from him. 

So he watches Mitch wander around his suite and admire the view. Follows the way his hands trail over the smooth surfaces of wood and marble, over the warm and soft velvet of the armchairs and flower petals. Admires his figure casting shadows in the golden light and leaving memories and traces everywhere that would be impossible to erase. 

So he watches Mitch's eyes light up when the food arrives. Follows his hands with their bony knuckles and delicate fingertips when he picks up pieces of fruit and cheese. Admires the shape of his lips and the tempting peek of tongue when he licks them clean. 

So he watches Mitch sliding closer to him on the couch until he's leaning against Freddie's side; body soft and pliant as always. Follows his hands when they reach for his own and pull them against his lips to press sweet, sweet kisses into his palm. Admires the black fringe of his lashes when they flutter shut and cast shadows on the pink blush of his cheeks while he falls asleep. 

It would be so easy. To take advantage of him like that; tired and warm and totally vulnerable. Of his trust. To carry him to the bedroom, undress him and lie beside him. To pull him close against his body and soak up the heat of his blood and the overwhelming scent. To feel the smoothness of his skin, brush the hair out of his face and trace the beautiful arch of his cupid's bow. 

It would be so, _so_ easy. And there is a dark part inside him whispering that Mitch wouldn't mind. That he would let him. That Mitch likes him and is sometimes as confused about this as he is. Almost as attracted to Freddie as he is. 

But he doesn't. 

It's not right, and it's not what he really wants. He wants Mitch to _choose_ him—not out of a sense of obligation or out of the strange affection he feels for Freddie that is mostly platonic. 

He doesn't because he's seen how MItch looks at someone he loves more than life itself. And he has never looked at Freddie the way he looked at Auston after the play. 

So he just picks him up carefully, without waking him up, and carries him to the bed, draws the covers over him and switches off the light. 

He doesn't stay and watch him. Doesn't listen to his calm breathing or the soothing sound of his heartbeat. He leaves the room and gets back to work; forces himself to not think about Mitch sleeping in the next room—in his bed. Trusting him so much when Freddie doesn't even deserve it because his thoughts are not always pure. 

__

It's still dark when Mitch awakes again. Only a faint violet hue is announcing the approaching day and the silhouette of the city is black, most lights in the windows have gone out hours ago. 

Freddie almost prefers this. 

The darkness takes the ugliness of the concrete and steel, makes it disappear and gives away the illusion of a futuristic metropolis filled with dark magic. It's not raining anymore but the clouds are hanging so low between the buildings that everything is hazy and dreamy, adding to the mysterious mood. Timeless like a dream. 

Except that time cannot be stopped. Freddie knows this more than almost anybody else. _Time never ceases_. It marches on cruelly and mercilessly. 

But he would give everything to freeze these moments. 

Mitch's barely audible footsteps on the fluffy carpet; his ruffled hair and wrinkled sweater… the cushion marks on his right cheek. He looks soft and so very attainable as he crosses the room to stand next to him.

"I know you don't need to sleep… but you really look tired." He leans against Freddie’s shoulder; warm and smelling of sleep and dreams and hints of Freddie’s cologne that must have remained on the sheets; his expression is an adorable mixture between a pout and a smile. "Why didn't you lie down with me?" 

Freddie has to close his eyes for a second—the picture is so tempting. Too tempting. And so he opens them right again because he's not allowed to dwell on it, can't allow himself to dwell on it. 

" _Mitch_ …" 

" _Freddie_ …" Mitch stretches the word, gives it a little whine, probably to imitate his own tone. But it's easy to notice that he's amused, that he isn't as serious as Freddie because he winds his fingers into Freddie's curls and messes them up; playful and teasing, in such a good mood that it should be infectious. 

Only that it's the opposite and Freddie rises so abruptly that Mitch flinches back. 

"Stop that." 

"… stop what?" 

He looks really confused and really hurt. 

"Stop doing this to me, please." Freddie pushes back the chair and steps away from the table; from Mitch, brings some distance between them. (He's mostly sure that he won't do anything he would regret—but it's safer to be away from Mitch right now.)

He doesn't turn around, rather stares out of the window, but the confusion is still in Mitch's voice when he finally speaks again.

"I'm—I'm not doing anything." It's only a whisper. 

"It's one thing that you're teasing me, tempting me, Mitch… but do you have to mock me, too?"

"I'm not! Freddie, what… I would never do that, I promise. I was just—just worried about you." 

There are soft footsteps approaching and then he can feel and smell Mitch's closeness; he must be standing right behind Freddie because he's suddenly so warm, so light, so breathless; the way he only is when he's close to Mitch. And he realizes that Mitch really didn't know what happened, doesn't know what he's doing to Freddie. 

"What did I do, Freddie? Pl-please tell me what you're talking about." Mitch’s presence is like a weight upon his shoulder even though he’s not touching Freddie, would never touch them without his permission now.

Freddie made sure of that with his refusal, with his hurtful tone. It's not what he wanted… It's the exact opposite of what he _wants_. He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. Then he turns around, crosses his arms in front of the chest. Prepared for the sight he thought he'd find. 

But it's worse. 

Because Mitch looks not only helpless and sad, he looks _heartbroken_. 

"I would never mock you, please believe me." 

Pale cheeks, wide eyes. Trembling. _Pleading_. 

"But you did. By coming here. By staying here and asking me to hold you, kissing my hands and cheeks… when I want so much more. You want my friendship, but I want your love." 

It takes everything Freddie has to not give in and pull him against his chest. It's so obvious that Mitch needs to be hugged, needs comfort—just like he needed it last night when he came to him, just like this morning when he woke up alone and confused in Freddie's bed. 

He's crying. Without tears. Without sound.

He's crying and Freddie did that. 

It's enough for him to finally give in, and open his arms. Then Mitch is falling into them, shaking with unshed tears and wretched sobs caught inside his chest. 

"Please… I'd—Never…"

"It's okay," he says because he'd say anything to make Mitch stop feeling miserable. He would do _everything_. So he holds Mitch. Holds him until the trembling stops, until his breath has calmed down and Mitch is pressed up against him; still desperate, still clinging. 

"I love being your friend, Mitch. And it's enough for me… it is, I swear. Because you never promised me anything. I'm your friend and I'll do everything for you. But please, don't torture me."

"I—I won't Freddie, you're… so much more to me. And I'm so—I'm so sorry." Mitch whispers against his chest. "You deserve better. You deserve so much more than… me."

Freddie can't help laughing; a dry and wretched sound. Cold and cynic. Because it's the truth. He knows it. He knows and yet he can’t change it. No one is as lovely, as precious to him as Mitch. 

"Yeah… maybe. But it's the way it is. I love you and you love…" 

But Mitch puts his hand over his mouth before he can finish the sentence, stops the word from falling between them like the knife that it is. Doesn’t remove it until he’s sure that Freddie won’t say the name.

"I know it's impossible and it won't change anything for me. I still can be your friend. And my offer still stands. You only have to say the word and I'll get you out there. No more working as a donor, no more worrying about money. I don't want anything in exchange." 

Mitch nods at first but then shakes his head so fast that his hair flies. 

"I don't deserve it."

He doesn't elaborate if he's referring to Freddie's offer to help, or his love. Maybe both. But it doesn't matter because it really won't change anything. 

"I hurt you. I hurt you and I never wanted that—” Mitch swallows; his adam’s apple bobs. “I don't deserve you."

A part of Freddie knows Mitch is right. But a much bigger part of Freddie is helplessly holding on when Mitch tries to disentangle himself from Freddie's embrace. Is still glad that he at least has this. 

"It's okay," Freddie repeats because there is nothing else he can say. Because there's nothing else. Because neither of them chose this. 

"It's not…" Now Mitch smiles; but it is even worse than seeing him cry. Is even worse than not touching him anymore. "You're wonderful, Freddie. Strong and beautiful and with such a warm, kind heart. Anyone would be so lucky to have you.” 

‘ _Not you, though_.’

Freddie doesn’t realize he said this aloud, but he must have. 

“My friends always say I’m stupid. Hopeless. I—I always thought they were wrong and laughed. But I guess they were right.” Mitch’s laugh is mirthless, resigning. Apologizing. “I know they were.” 

“I could give you the world.”

“I know.” 

“No more working at Ichor… offering your blood and your soul to rich businessman and greedy bored assholes. No more selling yourself to them, faking interest or compassion and tricking them to believe you’re something you’re not.”

“I know.”

“You could only do whatever you want: acting… studying, travelling. You could come with me to Europe, see all those cities you’ve only read and dreamed about so far. Without worrying about your family. You’d never have to worry about anything anymore.” 

“I know.”

Mitch is only whispering now. He takes a step back so that he’s barely touching Freddie anymore. Just his fingertips on the back of Freddie’s hands; unable to meet his eyes he looks and sounds so miserable that Freddie almost regrets his words. Almost. He would if he wasn’t aware of Mitch’s insecurity at Auston’s side—his unhappiness that he can’t overcome and that Auston is either oblivious to or unable to lift off him. Freddie wouldn’t have gotten to where he is today if he didn’t go after what he wants. Even if it seems hopeless. 

He never wanted anything like he wants Mitch. So if there’s the tiniest chance that Mitch could choose him he’s not going to waste it. He’s going to grasp it, not caring anymore that Mitch has a boyfriend. He’s a vampire—the epitome of selfishness. 

“And you’d never have to doubt my love. You’d never go to bed alone if you don’t want to. You’d never have to lie to me because everything I learned about you just made me love you more.” Freddie has to see Mitch’s face, he has to see his expression, the emotions in his eyes. He tentatively puts his hand under Mitch’s chin and tilts it upward; he has to make Mitch see his expression; the truth and promise in his eyes. “I would treat you as you deserve. Always… I know you have men and women telling you this every night. I know Auston tells you this. But I _mean_ it. I’ve lived for centuries and I know myself—I’ve never met anyone like you, never wanted anyone as I want you, and I’ve never promised anyone what I just promised you.” 

Mitch blinks and swallows again. He’s not crying. And Freddie doesn’t want him to cry again. He never wants Mitch to cry again. 

For long long moments, neither of them speaks. They just stand in the middle of the living room, engulfed in a golden light while outside of the windows the city awakes and the darkness turns into violet grey. While the red lights on the top fo the skyscrapers become pale and then disappear when the sun slides over the horizon and a soft orange hue bleeds into the cool fog. 

For a long, long moment they just breathe. They just feel. 

Freddie’s hand around Mitch’s face, his thumb caressing the smooth skin of his jaw, the velvet of his lips. Mitch’s fingertips sliding over his cold knuckles, calm and small movements; a touch that mirrors Freddie’s. 

When Mitch whispers his name it’s so full of emotion, thick and hoarse, like he’s speaking through a huge lump in his throat. 

“I—I can’t.” 

And Freddie knew. 

Knew that this would be the answer. 

But at least he has tried. 

He closes his eyes. Listens to the subtle sounds of Mitch right in front of him: his breathing, the beating of his blood underneath the breakable shell of his flesh. The shifting of his clothes when he stretches to his tiptoes to put his arms around Freddie. 

“I believe you, oh god—you have no idea how much I believe you and how much I wish I _could_. How I’ll never forget what you said because it’s the most beautiful thing someone has ever said to me.” He is close; his face right in front of Freddie’s. He wants to look, wants to open his eyes and look at him. But he can’t. 

Not even when it’ll be the last time. 

(He doesn’t trust himself, doesn’t trust his heart.) 

Not until Mitch repeats his name. Then he has to because he can’t deny him anything. And what more is this? Mitch already has his everything: his thoughts, his dreams, his _future_. 

“I didn’t want to hurt you… I don’t—Do you want me to leave right now? Because I—I don’t want to. It will tear me apart, but if that’s what you want I’ll do it. I’ll never see you again and I’ll never text you again. But please, _please_ don’t make me.” 

That’s the last thing Freddie wants. 

“I’ll—need time, but I would never make you leave. Okay?” 

“Please don’t make me leave,” Mitch repeats as if he hasn’t heard Freddie at all. So caught up in his own web of thoughts. As if Freddie is the only thread that keeps him connected to sanity. His eyes are clouded, unfocused, until Freddie finally places his hands around Mitch’s shoulders and gives him a little shake, and then again. Until Mitch looks up at him and finds the answer in his eyes. 

He smiles. Laughs. A wretched and choking sound. Wet as if he’s swallowing tears. 

“Thank you…” 

Then he separates himself from Freddie and wipes his hands over his eyes. As if there are real tears that he can brush away. 

There aren’t, but it’s not important. 

It's not important because Mitch’s smile becomes real, happy and relieved. Because Mitch’s arms come around his neck and his body presses against Freddie’s, warm and alive. Because Mitch’s lips slide over his jaw and cheek towards his ear. 

He’s going against Freddie’s wishes not even an hour after he told him, and Freddie doesn’t mind. _Can’t_ mind—it feels too good. Too close to what he really wants. 

Through the floor high windows they can see the sun peaking through the clouds, dyeing everything into a golden hue. A million waterdrops sliding down on the panes of glass, reflecting the light and painting sparkling dots onto the walls around them and the floor beneath them. With the vanishing fog the silhouettes of the buildings become clearer, more precise; the concrete needle of the tower, the white shield of the stadium, and the black pillars of the skyscrapers. The city that was sleeping awakens into reality. 

Freddie has always thought the city as ugly. The buildings too big, too high and too brutal compared to the more elegant skylines of European cities, where the highest buildings usually are slender spikes of church towers, or the delicate arches of bridges. Each one of them unique and an unmistakable landmark of its city, whereas everything looks the same in North America. 

But this morning, in this light… with Mitch in his arms and Mitch’s scent in his nose and Mitch’s heartbeat in his ears? 

It’s the only place he wants to be. 

He knows that Mitch will further break his heart; he will trample over the pieces until nothing is left except for dust and Freddie will let him—just like before. He will welcome Mitch into his suite and into his arms until Mitch stops appearing in his life. And he will protect him and his love until Mitch hates him for it. 

Freddie isn’t weak, stopped being weak when he buried his parents, his siblings and every other person he has ever loved. He has spent ages without caring about anyone, without getting close to someone; has spent ages watching kings rising and falling, fighting wars and in revolutions, listening and learning from the brightest minds. He has seen the world change and met countless brilliant people and geniuses. 

_Nothing really moved him, no one made him feel more than a flicker of affection._

But the last couple of months, since he set foot into the blood-red halls of Ichor and saw Mitch for the first time, he has felt more alive than ever before; more vulnerable and soft ~~and human~~. 

He can’t give that up. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading ♥ 
> 
> Alternative titles for this chapter would have been: “Freddie makes his move” or “Freddie gets his heart broken”.  
> Three more chapters left, I think... I know where I'm going with this, trust me. I have a plan. Although I have no idea how it ends, yet. ^.^
> 
> I’m on [ **tumblr** ](https://miss-malheur.tumblr.com/), come and talk to me, I’m nice.

**Author's Note:**

> Maybe one day I have time to make this into an actual story...  
> I’m on [ **tumblr** ](https://miss-malheur.tumblr.com/) and always up to talk about those two idiots.


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